


Shifter

by LadyLini



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Bang Challenge, Canon Compliant, Cas and Dean have everything figured out for once, Case Fic, Community: deancasbigbang, DeanCasBigBang 2015, F/M, Fallen Angels, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, LadyLini, M/M, Sam got a chance to lawyer, Sam takes the role of idiot this time, and they aren't happy, but it didn't last
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5097461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLini/pseuds/LadyLini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What do you want me to say, Cas? My brother, who I haven't seen in eleven years, just popped up out of nowhere and wants to join our hunt. My brother, who was raised by my dad and has no idea what we've been up to, wants to hang out with us—"<br/> "Why is that such a bad thing, Dean?"<br/> A pause. "You know what my dad was like."</p><p>or</p><p>The one where Cas and Dean have everything figured out, and it's Sam that's the idiot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I have to thank my wonderful betas, NyteKit and MarvelLuver. You guys are the best. Thank you so much for your help. I couldn't have done this without you.
> 
> Secondly, thank you to paxdracona for the absolutely astonishing art for this piece, which can be found (hint, hint) here: http://lady-lini.livejournal.com/1450.html . It's been so truly wonderful to work with you, and I'm so in love with what you've created. Thank you! 
> 
> And lastly, if you're interested in reading other Big Bangs, they can be found here: http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com .

The pain.

The pain was the only thing that really registered with the son. First it was just emotional—watching the demon that had killed his mother walk around inside his father. Then it was physical—being slammed against the hard wood wall. Then it was both—the demon inside his father bleeding him dry without ever having laid a finger on him. He couldn't take it anymore.

So he did the only thing he could think to do. He pleaded. "Dad," the son choked out, spitting blood out of his mouth so that he could speak. "Don't you let it kill me."

The only response the son was given was the pain worsening.

The son looked down at his chest and let forth a strangled gasp at the sight that awaited him. 

There were black spots dancing at the edge of his vision, but the son pushed them away. He refused to let this be his end. "Dad, please," he begged. The words came out wet sounding and broken.

For a moment, nothing happened. The pain continued to increase, and the son's screams of agony echoed through the room, reaching a pitch so high they were almost terrifying of their own accord.

The black continued its deranged dance at the edge of the son's vision, and he let his neck go limp. His chin dipped forward into the blood on his chest, but he couldn't bring himself to care. 

He'd given up. This was it.

This was how he was going to die.

Then, there came a single word. "Stop," the demon whispered. But the voice wasn't the demon's—it was his father's. It came again, louder and more forceful. "Stop it."

Suddenly, the pain disappeared. The son took a deep, rattling breath, trying to maintain some sort of control over himself. He knew the danger was far from over.

He dragged his eyes upward, leaving the rest of his head hanging low. "Dad?" he asked.

But the yellow eyes that met his own were not those of the son's father. "Sorry," the demon crooned, a psychotic smile playing along its lips. "Daddy's not home right now."

The son was able to respond with a simple, hoarse, "No," before the pain started again. 

He could feel his life slipping away, feel his very essence leaving his body. 

The black spots enlarged once more, and the son found himself unable to push them back any longer. Gradually, they consumed his vision, and the son felt himself slip into the sweet reprieve of unconsciousness.

The next thing he knew, he was on the floor in the far corner, curled protectively around his bleeding middle.

An unfamiliar man sat crouched over him, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Be still," he ordered the son as he reached a hand toward his face.

The son wanted to pull away, to flee, but he found himself held in place by the wall behind him. 

When the man's hand reached his forehead, the son felt warmth and something else, something not altogether unpleasant, flood through his midsection.

As soon as the man retracted his hand, the son looked down at his stomach, previously torn to shreds by the demon's invisible claws. Though his shirt was still torn to ribbons, his stomach was not.

"How—" the son began, only to be cut off by a groan from the other side of the room.

"It's alive."

The words sent a secondary flood of warmth through the son—they were spoken in his father's voice.

The son scrambled to his feet, some small part of his mind marveling over the fact that he was able to, ignoring the new man, and ran to his father. "Dad?" he asked, reaching forward helplessly, unsure of what he could do to help.

"It's still alive," his father repeated himself. "It's inside me. I can feel it." His face contorted painfully, and the son could see how hard his father was working to keep the demon at bay. "You shoot me, son," he spit out, the words an order.

The son shook his head, opening his mouth to protest, but he was cut off.

"Straight through the heart," his father went on. "Shoot me now."

The son nodded mutely, and his limbs acted of their own accord as he picked up the Colt. "Dad—"

His father's face contorted again, eyes squeezing shut in pain. "Do it!" he growled through clenched teeth.

There might have been tears in the son's eyes, but he wasn't sure. "Yes, sir," he said, fighting to keep his voice even. With that, he pulled the trigger.

Yellow flashes of light came off of his father's body, but the son turned away, unable to watch.

The man that had been leaning over him was still standing there, his trench-coat swaying lightly in the breeze kicked up by the demon's death. "You didn't have to do that," he said reproachfully, crouching so as to inspect the body.

The son glared defiantly at him, wiping a stray drop of blood off of his upper lip. "And who the hell are you to say so?" he demanded.

"Castiel," the man answered, turning away from the body and standing. His eyes glowed blue. "I'm an angel of the Lord."


	2. Chapter 2

It could be anyone. Anywhere. 

Sam tightened his grip on his gun and let his gaze rove the surrounding trees again, searching for any sign that the shifter might be lurking nearby.

Ahead of him, there was a shed—an old, rundown, should-have-imploded-upon-itself-years-ago jumble of rotten planks—leaning ominously to one side, as if prepared to transform itself into firewood at a moment's notice. From inside, Sam could hear something shuffling around, almost as if it were pacing. 

"Bingo," he murmured softly to himself, hefting and cocking his gun in one swift action as he moved steadily toward the shed.

Sam paused at the door of the shed, double checking that he could still hear the shifter moving around inside. The footsteps stopped as he approached, and Sam heard the cocking of another gun, which seemed odd to him as shifters didn't typically carry firearms. But he didn't focus too much on that; he had bigger concerns at the moment.

Sam glanced around, taking an extra second to come up with a better plan. When he couldn't, he rolled his eyes at his own stupidity, cursed his seemingly never-ending misfortunes, and kicked the door in. 

With a clatter, the door, rotted almost completely through, fell immediately from its hinges and onto the dirt floor. But Sam wasn't paying attention to that; there it was—just a few feet away in front of him.

He raised his gun, silver bullets poised and ready in the cartridge, just waiting for the fall of the hammer. He had his forefinger on the trigger, just milliseconds away from exerting enough pressure to fire, and—

The cold click of a third gun joining the fight sounded, far too close to Sam's head for comfort. "If you so much as touch a hair on his head, so help me, I can guarantee that you'll spend eternity as the King of Hell's personal bitch."

Sam swallowed. "You don't understand," he said, maintaining his stance and eyeing the _thing_ crouched behind a teetering stack of abandoned crates. "He's a monster—"

"He's actually quite the opposite," the voice retorted. It was deep and stiff, yet it was also warm and _familiar_ somehow. "So, why don't you just put that gun down, and—"

"I can't do that," Sam interrupted whomever—or whatever—was behind him. "I have a job to do here."

"So do I." The gun poked into the nape of his neck, its barrel sharp and uneven—a sawed-off, then. "But I'm the one with a gun to your pretty little Rapunzel head, so why don't you man up, and we can all use our words to sort this out, eh?"

If he had been a machine, the cogs and wiring that comprised Sam's mind would have been whirring away, searching for an escape. He wasn't stupid; he knew that the thing behind him would shoot him as soon as he lowered his gun from the other shifter's head. 

He may not have ever gotten completely out of this life, but that didn't mean he wanted to die as a result of it. 

"I don't have all day." Another jab with the muzzle of the gun.

"Fine," Sam snapped, unable to see another alternative. Maybe if he was able to move quickly enough …

Once Sam's gun was on the ground, the shifter behind the crates surged forward, watching Sam carefully as he retrieved the gun. 

With his mission completed, the shifter waltzed backward again, his overcoat billowing slightly with the movement, and nodded at the man holding the gun to Sam's head. Some unspoken communication passed between them, climaxing when the shifter in front of him uttered the words, "He's human."

The suddenness with which the air in the shed changed very nearly gave Sam whiplash. 

"Right then," the thing behind Sam said, its tone suddenly much lighter, all traces of the former threats gone. "If I put my gun away, are you going to try to run?"

Sam shook his head. "No," he said. And that was the truth. He wasn't going to leave until both shifters were returned to the earth. 

"Good," the shifter replied, as if praising a dog. "Cas?" it asked, addressing the other shifter, the one with the long coat. "You good?" There was something in the voice of the shifter behind him—some level of concern or tenderness—that Sam wouldn't have thought the brusque voice from just a few moments ago could have been capable of.

The shifter with the coat—Cas—nodded. "Of course I am."

"Right then." Sam could feel the shifter behind him shift his weight around. "You got him covered?"

"I hardly think 'got him covered' is sufficient," 'Cas' quipped. "I suppose I could smite him, if you'd like."

Sam did his best not to show his reaction to that statement. Wasn't smiting a demonic power? He'd thought this was nothing more than a simple shifter hunt—in and out and home in time for dinner.

Behind him, Sam felt the barrel of the gun disappear from his neck. 

"Okay, so—"

But Sam wasn't listening to whatever instructions it was about to give him. He spun around, reaching for the closest shifter, the one he knew was behind him, for leverage and the gun he knew it had—

Its face threw him, though.

Sam froze, stunned into silence. He _knew_ that face. He'd dreamed about it for years—watched it over and over again in his dreams as it broke in hurt in betrayal, its wearer shattered by his actions. He could still remember the exact expression it had worn when he'd made his stand and left for Stanford.

Yet every freckle, every scar, every line was there, right in their proper places, albeit with a few new ones.

Sam may have been choked and confused, but the creature now in front of him seemed just as choked and confused as he was, if not more-so.

They stood in silence, each locked in their own worlds of disbelief, for what felt like a very long time. 

At some point, Cas piped up with a simple, " _Should_ I smite him?"

And that seemed to flick a switch in the … being now in front of Sam. "Are you sure he's human, Cas?" it asked quietly. 

"Absolutely," Cas answered promptly, somehow managing to add a silent _duh_ to the word.

Sam blinked once, slowly and hesitantly, staring at the thing wearing the face of the person he'd missed most in this world. It couldn't be possible … It wasn't. 

Was it?

"Is it really you?" the man asked, quickly faltering. He licked his lips, and his voice came out impossibly quiet when he whispered, "Sam?"

Sam shuffled his feet backward slowly, still thrown by the thing's shape of choice, his eyes wide in disbelief and mild fear. "Where the hell did you get that face?" he demanded, surprised by the fact that his voice didn't waver.

The thing's chin jutted out in confusion. "No, Sammy, it's me. It's—Oh." It broke off, as if realizing something. "Is that a silver knife?" it asked, gesturing at the blade in Sam's hand.

Sam nodded mutely, his body seeming to have gone into autopilot mode. 

Without giving Sam a second to react, the shifter in front of him lunged forward, snatching for his wrist. 

Sam grunted, startled out of his reverie by the suddenness of the movement. "What—" He tried to bring his other hand up to lay into the thing holding onto him, but the other already had an unyielding grip on his other wrist. Between the two of them, he was entirely incapacitated.

"It's okay," the shifter in front of him promised, his voice unnaturally calm. "Look," he said, using his grip on Sam's wrist to bring the silver blade to his own arm. 

Sam fought him at first, but once he realized what it meant to do, he let it maneuver his hand willingly. He watched as the thing dragged the blade across his arm, drawing a thin line of blood to the surface without a problem.

Sam swallowed, still looking at the fresh cut on the—on his brother's arm, and his vocal chords seemed to act of their own accord. "Dean?"

Dean let a hesitant smile spread across his face and released Sam's wrist, relief evident on his face. "Hiya, Sammy."

Then Sam punched him.

~~~

"Eleven years, Dean," Sam muttered, ignoring the plate of food the waitress had just dropped off. "You've been gone for _eleven years_."

Dean glanced downward, finding something infinitely more interesting than Sam in the diner's plastic tabletop design. "I thought that's what you wanted," he said finally, some small trace of malice lacing its way through the words. 

"What I wanted?" Sam repeated dubiously. "Why the hell would I want you to just drop out of my life?"

Sam could see that Dean was making an effort not to yell. "The fact that you ignored all of my calls after you left might have given me that impression," Dean retorted, the words meant to bite.

Sam crossed his arms. "I had classes. I couldn't just get up and answer the phone every damn time you called."

Dean didn't say anything. 

"I thought you were dead," Sam told him.

"Yeah, well." Dean snaked a french-fry from Cas's plate, abandoned by its owner in favor of the bathroom. Sam couldn't help but suspect that Cas's sudden need to use the restroom was just a not-so-subtle way of leaving him alone with Dean. "You had Jess."

That gave Sam pause. "How the hell do you know about her?"

At that, Dean looked up, Cas's french-fry still half-way to his mouth. "I may not have an account, but I know how to use FaceBook, Sam."

Sam felt his face go red. "All this time, Dean?" he asked, furious, as he pushed his plate away violently. There was no way he was going to be able to eat now. "So you know I've been with Jess—"

"And your law degree," Dean added, somehow with the audacity to color his tone with pride. "And a car, and a house, and a lawn—"

Sam leaned forward, using the motion to put more force behind his words. "Where the _hell_ have you been all this time, Dean?" he demanded. "You've all but come back from the freaking dead, and you didn't think to call?"

Dean rubbed his forearm absently, his fingers ghosting over the cut he'd made with a silver blade back in the shed. He'd tried to refuse to let Sam do the same, claiming that he didn't need any more proof than Cas's diagnosis, but Sam had run the blade across his arm anyway. 

After a moment, Dean finally spoke. "My life is more complicated now," he murmured, his tone almost regretful. "More dangerous too," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"And it wasn't before?" Sam hedged.

Dean leaned into the not-quite-cushy diner seats he was obviously still so accustomed to and blew out a breath, as if deciding how to respond. "Multiple apocalypses will do that to a guy's life," he finally said.

"Apocalypses?" Same repeated. "As in the plural form of 'apocalypse'? The word for the end of the world as we know it?"

Dean nodded. "You know another meaning?" he asked sarcastically.

Despite himself, Sam colored slightly. "So hunting 'got complicated', you failed to let me know you were alive—seriously, just a ' _hey, Sam, I'm not dead yet. Oh, and, by the way, Merry Christmas!_ ' would've done it—and now you don't want to let me back into the loop," he surmised, punctuating the sentence with a stiff jerk of his chin. "Gotcha."

"That's not—" Dean began.

"It's probably not," Sam allowed, tone still harsh. "But it sure does seem that way."

One of Dean's hands found its way to his face, and he let it fall back down, pulling at the loose skin on his face. "I just—I don't know how much I should … " He broke off with a sigh, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His hand was still resting half-way down his face, as if forgotten there. "I should wait for Cas before I give you the lowdown," he mumbled into it, almost as if talking to himself.

Sam pursed his lips, trying not look like that offended him. "Fine," he allowed, folding his hands in front of him.

Thankfully, they were saved from sitting too long in awkward silence by Cas's return.

Despite the tense air surrounding the brothers, Dean grinned up at Cas as he slid farther into the booth, allowing Cas room to sit. "Hey," he greeted him quietly, almost softly.

Cas offered him a small smile in return. "Am I interrupting?" he asked.

Dean shook his head. "I was waiting for you before I told Sam the rest." He shrugged. "Figured you might want to have some say in how much of a damsel in distress I paint you as," he added cheekily.

At that, Cas snorted. "If anyone is the damsel in distress, it's _you_ , Dean Winchester."

Much as Sam was enjoying their back-and-forth, he felt the need to interrupt and remind the other two that he was still there.

"So," Sam said, the word somehow short while also attention-grabbing. "Him." He pointed his forefinger at the man he assumed to be Dean's new hunting partner, though he looked more appropriate to fill the role of tax accountant. "Where did he come from? How did he …" He didn't need to finish the question for Dean to grasp its meaning. _How did he take my place?_

"That's complicated too," Dean said bluntly, holding Sam's gaze, daring him to push the question.

Cas glanced over at Dean, something in his eyes that Sam couldn't decipher. He looked like he wanted to say something, perhaps make a contradiction. He must've seen something in Dean's face that told him not to though, because he turned away without saying a word.

Sam pursed his lips again. "Fine," he said, staring at his hands as if they would offer him the answers his brother seemed so hesitant to give. "What've you been doing?" he finally asked. "You've had a hell of a time gap to fill."

Cas piped up then. "Your brother killed the demon your father was hunting." There was something in his tone—something like the pride that had been in Dean's when he'd mentioned Sam's law degree, but there was something sadder and more anxious mixed in.

"You did?" Sam asked, eyebrows raised, impressed. 

Dean nodded, but his eyes dropped down to his cheeseburger, and something dark seemed to come over him. "It's dead," he confirmed.

"And Dad?" Sam inquired, unsure of whether he wanted to bring their father up so soon. "How's he?"

Dean's gaze didn't leave his plate. "The demon possessed him."

Sam blanched. "Dad was possessed?" 

At that, Dean got a look in his eyes, and Sam _knew_ even before Dean had to say anything. 

"He's dead, isn't he?" Sam asked softly. 

Dean just bobbed his head once, and that was enough.

Sam swallowed. "How?"

"When I found him … The demon was inside him, Sammy. I had to—He begged me to—" The words were hollow sounding and tinny. Sam didn't need Dean to finish his sentence to know how it ended. "I made sure that he didn't feel a thing."

Sam blew out a long breath, not truly surprised, but shocked nonetheless. He'd known that John would get himself killed somehow; he just hadn't expected that their father would force Dean to be the one responsible. "Go on," Sam said eventually.

Dean glanced at Cas, as if asking whether or not he wanted to take a turn in the story-telling, but Cas just shook his head. Dean shifted in his seat, seeming to gather his thoughts. "I kept hunting for a while after that, but I ended up dying—"

" _What_?" Sam interrupted, eyes wide.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Relax," he said. "I'm fine. Obviously. All thanks to this guy, of course," he added, nodding at Cas.

But Sam was still a step behind. "You _died_?"

Dean nodded, and that same darkness came back over his face. "I was pretty messed up after Dad …" His hand snaked up behind his head to rub at the back of his neck. "I went in after a nest of vamps on my own, and they got the jump on me."

There followed a moment of still silence, which Sam took advantage of, trying his very best to comprehend what his brother was telling him. He found himself examining the wall beside him, as if it would provide the key that would make this all make sense. 

When he looked back, his brother and Cas were staring intently at each other, evidently having another silent conversation.

Sam cleared his throat, and Dean turned his attention almost reluctantly back to him. Cas continued to watch Dean for a moment, then he too faced forward once more.

"You died?" Sam prompted Dean. "Then what?"

"Uh," Dean said, as if searching for a place to start. "I sort of triggered the Apocalypse while I was in Hell, so Cas and I dealt with _that_ once I got back."

Sam tried to believe his brother. Really, he did. "You started the Apocalypse?" he asked skeptically.

Dean shrugged, seemingly uncomfortable with the line of questioning. "It was an accident?" he offered.

"How the hell do you trigger the Apocalypse by _accident_?" Sam demanded.

Cas spread his hands wide on the table in front of him. "You'd be surprised how easy it is," he replied. 

Dean nodded morosely, and Sam could see how guilty he obviously felt.

Cas looked squarely at Dean, waiting until Dean met his gaze to speak. "You didn't know," he said forcefully. "We stopped it. That's all that matters."

Sam looked back and forth between the two of them, trying desperately to figure out what was going on. "You stopped the Apocalypse?" he clarified.

"A few actually," Dean corrected him, pulling out of whatever bubble he and Cas had been enveloped in.

Sam blinked once, slowly, then decided he didn't need to know. "Congratulations?" he offered, unsure of what else to say.

Dean snorted, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Thanks," he mumbled.

Sam let the slightly lighter air hang around them for a moment but soldiered on. "So after the Apocalypse?" he asked.

"Leviathans," Cas answered, and there was something akin to embarrassment on his face. "I'm afraid that was my doing, though."

To that, Dean just sighed. "You were doing what you thought was the right thing," he reminded Cas. "You didn't know what would happen."

Cas ignored his sentiment. "We ended up spending a year in Purgatory because of my actions," he retorted.

Sam stared at them. "Did you just—"

Dean snorted. "Yes," he answered Sam's unfinished question, "he did just say Purgatory. Yes, we really did spend a year there. No, I am not making this up."

Sam didn't stop staring. "Oh," he said simply. "Okay." Why not? The Apocalypse, Purgatory … "Anything else?"

"The angels fell a while after that," Cas answered. "That was my fault too."

Dean rolled his eyes again. "You were tricked," he interjected, his tone suggesting that this was a topic they'd covered many times before. "That wasn't your fault."

"Hold up," Sam cut in. "The angels falling—that was you guys?"

Dean stiffened ever-so-slightly. " _Tricked_ , Sam," he said defensively. "He was tricked."

Sam held his brother's gaze. "Answer the question."

"Sam—" Dean began, trying to reason with him.

But Sam wasn't having it. "Answer the damn question, Dean."

Though the words had been directed at Dean, it was Cas that answered. "It was me," he admitted, "though I was under the impression that—"

Sam cut him off with a glare. "I don't care what _impressions_ you were under," he all but growled. "Jess's dad was killed by one of the fallen angels. Because he was looking for _you_ , and he thought I knew where you were. But I guess he had the wrong Winchester, didn't he?"

Dean glared right back at him. "You can't hold Cas accountable for that."

Cas looked down, twisting his fingers together. "I'm sorry," he said. "For innocents to die was never my intention."

"Yet they did," Sam retorted. Memories of that evening, of the bedraggled man showing up on Jess's front stoop during their first dinner-with-the-parents and demanding to know where "the Winchester's angel" was. He remembered the way the man's eyes had filled with rabid anger and the determination in his eyes as he'd singled Sam out, brandishing a long, silver sword of some sort.

Sam remembered the confusion he'd felt when Jess's father had stepped forward, informing the unwanted visitor just where he could stick his seemingly wild accusations.

He remembered the soft thud Jess's father's body had made as it hit the floor, a fresh hole in its chest.

He barely remembered pulling the knife they'd been using to slice the turkey from the hunk of meat and taking the man down. 

He refused to remember the look on Jess's face when the man joined her father on the floor.

It had taken them years to get past that.

"I'm sorry," Cas said again. "I never—" he began again.

"It's in the past," Dean interjected, leveling Sam with a look that very clearly told him he could either shut up or leave. "What's done is done."

Sam swallowed and glanced down at his glass of water, suddenly wishing he'd ordered something stronger. "Yeah," he mumbled, following the word with a deep sigh. "You're right."

Sam was still looking down into the contents of the plastic glass in front of him, so he missed the small, grateful upturn of his lips Cas tossed to Dean.

When Sam did finally look back up, it was after shoving old memories into the farthest, darkest corners of his mind that he possibly could. "So," he said, struggling to get the conversation back on track. "After the angels fell?" It was more difficult than he'd thought it would be to keep his voice from wavering.

Dean shrugged, assuming an air of forced nonchalance. "I made bad decisions of my own, namely those involving the father of murder himself—" He broke off upon catching the look on Cas's face and evidently elected to skip that part of the tale. "We ganked some sons of bitches, drank some beers, stopped the Darkness, and had a merry ol' time." Once he was finished speaking, he unashamedly snatched another fry from Cas's plate, his own having long ago been demolished.

"We?" Sam repeated, having caught the key word.

"Cas … stuck around after the first apocalypse," Dean replied, casting a glance at the man in question, as if asking if that answered would suffice. In response, Cas gave a tiny nod of his head.

"Stuck around?" Sam repeated, picking up on the slight hesitation before the words. 

Dean nodded pointedly. "It's this thing people do sometimes when they care about a person's safety."

The mildly pained expression on Cas's face in reaction to Dean's comment made Sam sure that Dean had told him what had passed between them, which, for whatever reason, made Sam feel terribly guilty.

Sam elected to pretend that he hadn't caught the oh-so-subtle jibe. Instead, he opened and closed his mouth a few times, searching for a way to return the topic of their conversation to the hunt. Hunting was a safer topic. It was a topic that wouldn't force any of them into relive long-dead memories. Eventually, he simply settled for, "So what do you guys know about this thing?"

Dean glanced at Cas, and Sam watched as yet another silent conversation passed between them. It didn't feel like it had been so long ago that Sam had had that sort of connection with Dean, which left him with an uncomfortably _green_ feeling in his gut.

After a moment, Dean turned away from his new hunting partner. "Don't you have lawyer business or something?" he asked. The question was a hint and an honest inquiry all in one.

Sam shook his head. "I can put it off," he answered, stretching the truth by a mile. 

"We can finish this up," Dean offered, pushing ever-so-slightly. "I know how much you wanted out of the life," he added. "I'm not going to be the one to pull you back in."

And there it was. 

Had Dean not spoken the thought aloud, Sam could have gone on pretending that it wasn't his fault they had remained estranged. But he had told his brother—and his father—not to come after him, not to contact him. He couldn't continue to act as if this was all Dean's fault. The situation they were in now was his own fault too.

Sam shook his head, forcing himself back to the present moment. "I'm already back in," he admitted, expression stoic. "Have been for a while now, actually."

Dean grabbed another french-fry from Cas's plate and tossed it into his mouth. "Oh," he said. What else was there to say? A moment of awkward silence later, Dean glanced up from his own plate of grease. "And I can't change your mind?" he checked.

Sam shook his head, a forceful yet silent _no._

At that, Dean just sighed and glanced at Cas, cocking an eyebrow, as if to ask permission.

Though Sam didn't catch it, Cas must've given Dean some sort of sign, because Dean turned back to Sam and simply said, "Okay."

"Seriously?" Sam asked, surprised by how easily Dean had agreed. "Just … 'okay'?"

Dean stood, pulled out his wallet, and dropped a few undoubtedly immorally obtained bills on the table to pay for their meal. "Is there anything else to say?" he asked.

Sam let a long breath out through his nose, searching for a response. "I guess not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter: http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/lady_lini/75490476/793/793_original.jpg


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you okay?"

Dean squinted at the road in front of him. "I'm fine," he mumbled. The backs of his knuckles turned white from his grip on the steering-wheel, effectively contradicting his statement.

His eyes flickered absently to the rearview mirror, finding the two yellow circles he was looking for easily. Despite the fact that the headlights of the car behind them made it impossible to focus on, Dean knew the car belonged to Sam. _Sam._ And wasn't that a funny thought? His brother was _there._ Maybe he hadn't messed up as badly as he'd thought.

Cas just lifted his chin, waiting. "We can always have this conversation once we reach the motel if you'd prefer. But then I'll be comfortable, and I'll stretch it out as long as I can …" he threatened.

Dean sighed, and his fingers drummed against the steering-wheel of their own accord. "What do you want me to say, Cas?" he asked, tone short and clipped. For a moment, he was tempted to run a hand over his face, but he caught himself at the last moment. He'd never forgive himself if he wrecked the Impala, especially while Cas was in it, angelic powers be damned. "My brother, who I haven't seen in eleven years, just popped up out of nowhere and wants to join our hunt. My brother, who was raised by _my dad_ and has no idea what we've been up to, wants to hang out with _us_ —"

Cas frowned. "Why is that such a bad thing?" he asked.

Dean shook his head slowly, as if working through some old, haunting memory. Finally, he simply murmured, "You know what my dad was like."

Cas reached a hand across the seat, placing it reassuringly on Dean's shoulder. "You told me that Sam walked away from him," Cas reminded him. "You said that he left because he disliked your father."

"Yeah," Dean said. "He did. But it was mostly the college thing."

Cas bobbed his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. "You should at least give him a chance," he said after a moment. "It's possible that he doesn't share some of your father's less … accepting views—"

"And if he does?" Dean shot back, glaring at the mile markers as they passed. 

Cas shifted in his seat, letting his hand fall from Dean's shoulder to the seat below. He took a moment or two before answering, seeming to put it off as long as he could. "I would imagine that would be very difficult for you," he finally said.

Dean snorted. "There's the understatement of the century," he muttered. 

"But wouldn't you rather know?" Cas asked, his tone earnest.

He was truly asking the question, not just using it to corner Dean, and Dean knew that. Cas wouldn't question Dean's decision if he decided he'd rather not know, and, for that, Dean would be eternally grateful. It took him a moment to think it over, but after yet another long pause in their conversation, as answer, Dean just nodded. "Yeah," he added. "I would."

They sat in silence again for a while, each lost in their own minds.

"Cas?" Dean asked hesitantly as they passed under a lighted billboard, the yellow lights washing the Impala temporarily in a dull glow.

"Mmm?" Cas murmured, still staring absently at the side of the road as it flashed by.

Dean swallowed uncertainly as the light from the billboard faded. "Can I ask you to do something?"

Something about the tone of Dean's voice got Cas's attention, and he turned back toward the car's other inhabitant. "Of course," he said automatically. "Anything."

"Could you …" Dean faltered, knowing that what he was asking wasn't only an inconvenience but potentially dangerous. "Do you think we could, you know, ease Sam into all … all of this?" He gestured with his thumb between the two of them.

Cas narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What do you have in mind?"

"I was just thinking," Dean started, "about us, I mean." He paused uncertainly. "We're sort of a lot to take in, what with apocalypses and the demons and all the other baggage we've got going on, plus all of the … Hell, Cas, you know what I mean."

Cas nodded slowly. "I know," he said. "And?"

Dean swallowed. "I thought—I mean, it could be best if—"

"Dean."

Dean fought the urge to drag a hand over his face once again. "You saw how Sam got back there," he said slowly. "He was just about ready to tear your throat out because you'd had anything to do with the angels Falling. I just—I think, maybe, introducing you as you _and_ as an angel might be …"

Cas tilted his head, confused.

"I don't want him to get the wrong idea," Dean finished. "The last thing I want is for him to shoot you because he thinks you're one of the bad guys."

"You think he would attempt to kill me?" Cas asked, eyes narrowed further. 

"I don't know," Dean admitted. "The Sam I knew as a kid … He'd never hurt a fly if it wasn't a direct threat to someone's life. But this guy? Cas, I haven't seen him in over a decade. A lot has happened."

Cas leaned farther into the back of the Impala's passenger seat. "I see," he said.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "That's it?" he asked.

Cas shrugged, the fabric of his beloved trench-coat ruffling against the leather of his seat. "You know your brother better than I do," he replied. "If you believe it better that we wait to inform him of the fact that I'm not human …" He shrugged. "It can wait."

Dean let loose a grateful smile. "Thanks, Cas," he said. "I owe you one."

"I know," Cas replied. "Just don't wait too long."

"I won't," Dean promised. "Just until he doesn't want to stick a knife up your ass."

At that, Cas quirked a smile. "I'd like to see him try."

Dean grinned, the light of it touching his eyes. "You're one cocky little bastard, you know that?"

Cas smirked. "I'm aware," he replied.

~~~

After one much more than unpleasant phone call with Jess ("What do you mean you don't know when you'll be back? I thought you were on a damn business trip!") and one no-questions-asked motel reservation, Sam was officially ready to join the hunt, though Dean—and Cas, for that matter—seemed to have mixed feelings about his joining.

As Sam ambled out of the motel's lobby, he couldn't help but instinctively scan the parking lot for the Impala. When he found it, he was overcome by a sudden sense of déjà vu. It felt like only yesterday that he had walked out of some other motel lobby, searched the parking lot for the Impala and his waiting brother, and begun a different hunt.

He spotted the Impala, sitting in the far side of the parking lot, looking just as neat and clean as ever. Sam could tell she'd been worked on, though. Every corner and edge of her screamed of the long hours Dean had put into her over the years.

"You miss her? Or do you just like perving on other people's cars?"

Sam spun around, hands already reaching for the firearm in his waistband, only to freeze in the middle of the action; it was Dean, not an attacker. "I was just—"

Dean shook his head, letting Sam know he had only been teasing. "I know," he said. "Reflexes are what keep you alive. Remember that?"

Sam stiffened marginally. Those words had been all but bashed into his skull by their father all those years ago. "Of course I remember," he answered.

They stood in silence for a moment, simply staring at the Impala. Sam couldn't help but be reminded of all the times they'd stood like this, years ago, each with a beer in one hand and fresh blood on the other.

Eventually, Sam felt the need to break the silence, so he asked, "Where'd you find him?"

Now it was Dean's turn to stiffen. "Who?" he asked, despite the fact that they both knew he knew exactly who Sam was talking about.

"You know who," Sam retorted, shuffling his feet so that he was facing away from the Impala and toward Dean. 

"Right." Dean reached a hand up behind his neck, scratching at the back of it; it was a nervous habit Sam was familiar with. "He and I, uh. We met the first time right after Dad died …" he said. "I didn't see him for a while after that—a few years or so. But after the apocalypse, we ended up hunting together and …" Dean trailed off, as if to steel himself against the next words. "I got sent to the future a few years back, and, I dunno, it sort of set my priorities straight, I guess, and we partnered up. Been together ever since." He shrugged, but his movements were quick and nervous looking, like he had just admitted to a huge, terrifying secret.

Sam just nodded though, mildly confused by his brother's sudden change in demeanor. Why should he have a problem with Dean finding a new hunting partner? "He any good in a fight?" Somehow, Sam couldn't quite picture Cas with a blade; the overcoat he wore gave him the appearance of a lanky business man, not a muscled, rugged fighter.

"The best," Dean replied immediately.

To Sam, Dean looked more relieved than he imagined he might after being saved from an untimely death, which confused him to no end. What did Dean have to fear in telling him about Cas?

"And the books?" Sam inquired. He wasn't sure why any of this mattered. Of course Cas would be good with both; Dean wouldn't put his life in the hands of anyone short of the best.

Dean grinned, as if remembering some distant memory. "Yeah," he answered. "Yeah," he said again, as if unsure of how to continue. "He's got more memorized than Bobby did."

It took a moment for that to register with Sam. "Did?" he repeated.

Dean's face contorted painfully, realizing what he had just said. "Bullet to the head back in '12," he said in answer, the words short and brusque. "Died in the hospital."

Sam swallowed. Put his hands on his hips. Blinked one too many times. "Anyone else I should know about?" he asked, unable to help the accusatory tone of his voice. 

In response to that, Dean's shoulders drooped, and he sighed, dragging a hand over his face. "No one you knew," he replied stoically. "But just about everyone I've ever met has kicked the bucket." He paused. "Most of 'em sooner rather than later too."

"Oh," Sam said. What else was there to say to a statement like that?

But Dean seemed to understand. "Yeah," he said. Another pause. "I'm gonna go hit the hay," he announced, turning on his heel. "We'll roll out first thing in the morning," he added over his shoulder. "You know the drill."

Soon, it was just Sam standing in the middle of the motel parking lot, though that really wasn't such a huge surprise. Why would anyone in their right mind choose to loiter in a parking lot like this one at such a late hour?

But Sam wasn't thinking about potential muggings; he could take care of himself. He was thinking about Cas. Or, more specifically, he was thinking about the way Dean had talked about him. He had looked like a kindergarten mom, proud of every little thing Cas did or could do. And the way he looked at and moved around Cas … They were so comfortable together.

There was something there, Sam decided, some dynamic of Dean's relationship with Cas that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Something he was missing. Something about the way Dean had been constantly glancing over at Cas, always checking with him before he answered one of Sam's questions … 

But Sam decided he could leave those thoughts for tomorrow. It was too late at night to be overthinking these things. Besides, he had a hunt to prepare for.


	4. Chapter 4

Cas immediately looked up from his book as Dean entered their motel room. "How did it go?" he asked, searching Dean's face for anything to suggest that Sam had reacted poorly.

Dean shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair across the table from Cas. "He barely even flinched," he announced, obviously pleased by this. "All he did was ask if you could handle yourself in a fight."

"And you told him that I've bested you many times, I presume," Cas teased him, beyond glad that Sam had removed himself from his father's legacy.

Dean snorted and glanced at the book Cas had in front of him. "What're you reading?" he asked, changing the topic and twisting his head so as to get a better look at the cover.

Cas pushed it across the table so that Dean could see it more easily. "It's something I found in one of the bunker's libraries," he said. "At first, I thought it was just a book on Devil's Traps, but now …" He shook his head, conveying his skepticism of his own ramblings. "I think it's possible that there's something more here."

Dean squinted at the tiny Latin phrases surrounding the faded sketches and diagrams in an attempt to understand what Cas meant but quickly gave up; his Latin wasn't nearly as good as Cas's. "Why is it that you never read anything in English?" he complained good-naturedly, pushing the book back over to Cas. "Stephen King? Vonnegut?"

Cas looked like he was on the verge of rolling his eyes, but he managed not to. "You forget that I have, more or less," he replied, almost cheekily. "Does having the plot deposited directly into your mind count as having read the book?"

"Hell if I know," Dean answered, kicking his feet up on the table. "I'm not exactly winning awards for being the world's best philosopher."

Cas glared at Dean's feet until he placed them back on the floor. Once the table was clear of any and all shoes, Cas heaved the cover of his book closed, the leather _thump_ ing lightly against the thick parchment. "You looked distressed when you came in," he noted, examining Dean's face again, "yet you say your conversation with your brother went well." He waited for Dean's gaze to find his own, asking the rest of his questions without words.

Dean sunk backward, slouching into the stiff plastic of the motel chair and dragging a hand over his face. "I had to tell him about Bobby," he said finally, paused, then added, "And the others."

"Ah." Cas pursed his lips. "Was he upset?"

Dean shrugged. "Dunno," he answered honestly. "He was Dad's kid, after all. He's not really what you'd call an open book."

At that, Cas did roll his eyes, mentally damning John Winchester. "If he's anywhere near as emotionally stunted and unthinking as you were when I first met you, I'm throwing in the towel on this hunt right now," he threatened, though the threat was an empty one. They both knew he would never abandon a hunt-in-progress.

Dean laughed without humor, the light not quite touching his eyes. "I was pretty bad back then, wasn't I?" he said after a moment, the words more meant for himself than anyone else. Memories of his blind obedience, his blind faith, flickered through his mind, highlighting the shortcomings of his early life and childhood. 

In response to Dean's musing, Cas shook his head fiercely. "I didn't mean that—"

"I know," Dean assured him earnestly. "I know what you meant."

Cas looked relieved. "Good," he said. "I just meant that your father had a negative effect on your mental well-being."

Now it was Dean's turn to roll his eyes. "Cas?"

"Yes?"

"You ever heard of the phrase 'quit while you're ahead'?"

~~~

After what felt like no time at all, Sam was awoken by a banging at his door. 

"Rise and shine, Sammy!" Dean called though the thin wood. "We've got a lead!"

Sam groaned. His first instinct upon being dragged into the land of the living was to stuff his face farther into the flat pillow, but once he woke up enough to realize that Dean wasn't about to leave him alone, he sat up slowly and stretched, working through each kink in his neck individually.

In response to Dean's continued banging, Sam threw the nearest item—a shoe—at the door. "I'm coming!" he hollered. "Relax, dude."

Fourteen minutes later, Sam was dressed in his "I'm definitely a real FBI agent" suit, had his bags packed, and was ready to roll out. 

As he ambled over to the Impala, Sam couldn't help but overhear the, admittedly, rather private-looking conversation Cas and Dean were in the middle of.

"He deserves to know," Cas was saying to Dean, his fingers fiddling absently with the handle of the bag he was holding.

Dean took the bag from Cas and tossed it in the open trunk. "I know," he said as he closed the lid. "You're right, but—" 

"I know I'm right," Cas said, though it somehow didn't come off as pretentious. Just a statement of fact. "What is there to 'but'? They are, or, in Adam's case, were both family to you—and Sam. Or have you forgotten?"

"I know," Dean said again. He sighed and leaned heavily on the trunk of the Impala. "But I already had to tell him about Dad and Bobby, and there's the other stuff with us, and … I just don't want to add to the crap, you know?"

At that moment, Dean chanced to look over Cas's shoulder. As soon as he noticed Sam's approach, he schooled his features into the "everything is fine" mask he usually wore in an attempt to erase the strained lines he'd been wearing. "Heya, Sammy!" he called, his voice just a tad too cheerful.

Sam ignored the greeting. "Were you talking about me?" 

Dean shook his head, expression just a hair away from truly looking confused. " 'Course not," he lied. "Why would you think that?"

Cas turned and glared at Dean in a way that Sam suspected very few people were allowed to without getting beaten up. "Dean Winchester, so help me—"

Sam interrupted him. "Who's Adam?"

Dean froze, and his reaction told Sam that he'd struck the right chord. 

"Well?" Sam prompted Dean, curiosity and anger equally audible in the word.

Cas just kept glaring at Dean, as if he could make him speak with only the power of his eyes. 

After a moment, Dean glanced up at Cas and, seeing his expression, relented. "Our brother," he admitted.

Sam felt his heart skip a beat. "What?"

"Half-brother," Dean amended, casting another look at Cas, this one very clearly a reproach for throwing him under the bus.

"Explain," Sam demanded.

Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked his heel absently against the Impala's rear tire, doing his best to maintain an air of nonchalance. "Adam Milligan," he said. "He was, uh, see, Dad had another kid, with a chick named Kate. He kept 'em both a secret, but Cas and I ran into them on a hunt a while back, so _that_ cat took a flying leap out of the bag." He paused, gauging Sam's reaction. "It turned out that they were both already dead though. Some ghouls got to 'em first and decided to wear their faces around. But they convinced us they were the real deal first. I mean, I should've seen it, but they didn't react to the silver, so—"

Sam tightened his grip on his bag and tuned out Dean's rambling. "Are you telling me we had another brother?"

Dean shifted as if unsure of how to respond. 

"And he's dead too?" Sam went on.

Dean spread his hands helplessly in his lap. "He came back to life a while later," he offered.

"But he died again after that," Cas added bluntly.

Sam did his best to pretend Cas hadn't spoken. He still wasn't sure he could forget that it had been Cas that had essentially allowed Jess's dad to be killed, and he really wasn't helping himself any with statements like that.

Dean gave Cas an exasperated look. "People skills," he muttered. Then, to Sam, he continued, "We tried to save him, Sammy. We really did, but …"

"There were larger forces at play," Cas surmised matter-of-factly. 

"Larger forces at play," Sam mumbled to no one in particular. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Dean opened his mouth to formulate a response, but Sam just clenched his jaw and shook his head, effectively cutting him off. "I just need a minute to process … all of this," he requested. He could feel little pinpricks at the corners of his eyes. "A brother I never knew I had, Bobby, Dad—it's a lot to take in."

To that, Dean just nodded in understanding and grabbed Cas by the wrist, tugging him around to the front of the car. "Take your time," he told Sam as he slipped into the driver's seat.

Cas tossed Sam a cautious smile—though it came off more like a grimace—and took his spot in the passenger's seat.

Sam wasn't sure why, but watching someone else get into the passenger's seat caused his chest to tighten uncomfortably. It didn't feel so very long ago that that seat had been his, that the "second in command" position had been his. 

Likewise, it didn't feel so very long ago that Sam had had the same sort of complete trust with Dean that he and Cas now seemed to share, and Sam couldn't help but lament its loss. As certain as he had been about going to Stanford and as much as he certainly didn't regret going, he hated that it had severed so many ties. 

He turned away from the Impala, shielding his face from view, and ran a hand through his hair. It was starting to get long again. He'd need a trip to the barber's soon.

But in the meantime, there was an "everyone I used to know, and some I didn't, is dead" crisis to have.


	5. Chapter 5

"You seem troubled."

Dean looked over at Cas, working to move his hand away from his face. "Oh?" he asked sarcastically. "And why would you possibly think that?"

Cas made a small _harrumph_ sound and shifted in his seat. "Your short temper might have tipped me off," he replied.

Dean dropped his hand onto the steering-wheel in front of him, his eyes following the movement, but didn't respond.

"Dean," Cas said exasperatedly, "you can either talk now, or you can talk with Sam in the car. It's up to you."

Dean snorted, though the sound conveyed no actual amusement. "You can be pushy as hell, you know that?"

Cas smirked. "I'm aware," he replied.

"Of course you are," Dean retorted, still staring out the windshield. He fell silent again after that, allowing the silence to fill the emptiness of the car their lack of speech left. 

"Dean," Cas said again, this time more gently. 

Dean sighed, giving in. "This whole thing … It's taken me a little off guard, I guess. Don't get me wrong," he said, "I missed Sammy. A lot. I just … him coming back isn't as easy as I thought it'd be."

Cas nodded understandingly. "Because of me," he surmised.

"No," Dean said hurriedly, immediately drawing his gaze back over to Cas. "I mean, a little. But that's not it. At all." 

"Then what?" Cas asked, his chin jutting to the side in his signature head tilt.

Dean fiddled with the switch for the turn signal, flicking it back and forth absently. "I—it's just—" He cut off, took a breath, and started again. "Sam may not have liked Dad, but Dad was still his dad, if you know what I mean, and …" He let the rest of the sentence remain unspoken, but Cas seemed to understand what he meant. 

"I'm sure your father's sphere of influence has dissipated," Cas said. "It's been a long time since Sam last saw him."

"I know," Dean said, maintaining eye contact with the steering-wheel. "I just—I don't know that I could stand it if he didn't—" He broke off, unable to complete the thought. 

"If he were to attempt to kill me?" Cas finished for him, his tone soft and hesitant.

Dean nodded, simply because he didn't have a clue as to how else to respond.

Cas furrowed his brow. "I don't believe he will," he said with a certainty Dean didn't feel.

"And how do you know that?" Dean snapped. He was instantly ashamed by the outburst. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to yell."

If Cas was at all affected by Dean's tone, he didn't show it. "It's fine," he said. "I know," he continued, "because you've told me so many great things about him. If he's truly as independent and capable of thinking for himself as you've told me his is, I doubt you have anything to worry about."

Dean shook his head, dragging his hand over his face again. "Cas, man, you saw how he reacted back at that diner. He ain't the angels' biggest fan."

"Maybe not," Cas allowed. "But I doubt that he could kill me, even if he tried."

At that, Dean emitted a soft snort. "I guess not."

Cas leaned back into his seat, letting out a satisfied sigh. "There are certain perks to being a former servant of the Lord."

They were quiet for a moment, then Dean interrupted the silence. "What if he has an angel blade?"

Cas very nearly groaned, held back only by the fact that he knew Dean wasn't trying to be annoying but that he was, in fact, truly worried about him. 

"Dean, your concern is touching," Cas said earnestly, "but I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Dean continued to stare down the steering-wheel. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was capable of drilling an actual hole into it with only his eyes. But, no, that was a power reserved for Superman, and Superman only. And Batman could probably pull something out of his utility belt … 

Dean sighed, remembering many an afternoon spent attempting to entertain his little brother with tales of superheroes and the innocent people they'd saved. Things used to be so simple.

But then Sam had left, and John had delved ever further into his obsession with finding _the_ demon, leaving Dean to fruitlessly try to pick up the pieces of the life they had once shared.

Maybe he'd cut his hands on the shards one too many times.

"It's too bad I'm not really Batman," Dean muttered, more to himself and the steering-wheel than to anyone else.

Cas didn't bother to ask what Dean meant by that.

~~~

In every sense of the word, the Impala was tense during the drive to wherever it was they were going.

Dean seemed to have something on his mind, and Cas, as Sam was beginning to figure out, took all of his social cues from Dean, so he fell quiet while Dean worked over whatever it was that he needed to work out. 

The silence of the Impala's other two passengers left Sam with nothing better to do than dwell on the information he'd just become privy to. Of course, Sam was a Winchester, so he fled from anything involving the analyzation of feelings and chose instead to attempt to strike up a conversation with Cas.

Sam cleared his throat. "So," he said. He gave himself a mental pat on the back. What a great way to start a conversation. "Cas." He certainly wasn't going to win any sort of conversationalist-of-the-year award for his smalltalk abilities. "Is that, um, short for something?"

"Yes," Cas answered, looking up from the book he had balanced in his lap and furrowing his brow as if to signify that he was taking the question very seriously. 

Though Cas had his mouth opened to finish answering the question, Dean jerked himself abruptly from whatever brooding he'd been doing and, in an exaggeratedly deep voice no doubt meant to be an exaggerated depiction of Cas's, proclaimed, "It's a shortened version of his name."

Cas snorted, apparently finding something about that funny, but he didn't pursue it and turned his attention back to Sam. "It's short for Castiel," he explained. "But I don't use that name anymore. It has … unwanted connotations."

Sam barely stopped himself from raising his eyebrows. "That's a, uh—"

In the rearview mirror, Sam saw Dean cock an eyebrow, as if daring him to finish that sentence. "It's an angel's name," Dean informed him, his tone almost defensive.

Caught rather off-guard by Dean's sudden near-hostility, Sam didn't think before he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Were your parents religious or something?" 

If, for some odd reason, Sam had expected either Cas or Dean to react negatively, he would have been sorely disappointed. All they did was get that weird look on their faces and snort-laugh together. Sam couldn't help but be a little creeped out by their synchronization.

Cas kept his gaze carefully away from Dean, Sam noticed, as if he were afraid to look at him for fear of laughing. "I suppose you could say they were. My father was, at least."

But Dean laughed anyway, full-on in a way Sam had never seen him laugh before. "Dude," he managed in between bursts of laughter. "I'm driving."

To hear those words leave his brother's mouth was nothing short of a shock to Sam. Never, in all the years that he'd known him, had Dean ever cared about keeping his eyes on the road or concentrating on the safety of his driving in any way, shape, or form. 

"My apologies, Dean," Cas said solemnly, turning around in his seat obediently. "I'll make an attempt not to amuse you any farther."

Sam wasn't sure, but he could have sworn he heard Dean mutter, "Fat chance."

Silence again fell over the Impala, this one slightly more awkward than the original. The job of background noise creation was left to the car's engine.

"How much farther is it?" Sam inquired once he didn't think he could take the silence any longer.

" 'Bout a half-hour or so," Dean replied off the top of his head.

Sam prepared himself to endure the silence he knew would relapse in a moment, then a thought occurred to him. "How do you know?" he asked.

This time, Cas answered the question. "We've been to the witness's home before. She's, admittedly, been less than helpful. But all of the evidence points in her direction."

"Oh." Sam nodded. "And who is she?"

"Candace Miller," Dean supplied, eyes trained on the road in a way Sam thought he'd never see. "Late sixties, about four feet tall, batshit crazy—"

"Dean," Cas said in a warning tone, as if Sam was still a young child that shouldn't be exposed to such vulgar language.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever. _Can_ dace _can't_ grasp the fact that it's not the fifteen hundreds anymore—"

Cas sighed. "She has her beliefs, Dean. She's entitled." From the tones of their voices, it sounded as if Dean and Cas were having this argument for the third or fourth time.

"Her beliefs are stupid," Dean informed the steering-wheel.

"I never said they weren't," Cas retorted.

Sam glanced between the two of them amusedly. "And how does she fit into the case?" he asked in an attempt to reroute the conversation.

"We don't know!" Dean cried, frustrated. Sam almost expected him to smack the steering-wheel for emphasis, but he didn't.

"So what _do_ you know then?" Sam asked, ignoring Dean's exasperated tone. He'd take what he could get.

"She's the biggest prude this side of the Mississippi has ever seen," Dean grumbled.

Sam didn't want to know how Dean knew that.

Cas chuckled at Dean's answer. To Sam, he said, "We know that Ms. Miller's name keeps popping up in the investigation—"

"She knows something," Dean added, obviously making a conscious effort to keep his vexation out of his tone. "Maybe even who or where the shifter is, but she's not talking. To either of _us_ , anyway."

Cas nodded along as Dean spoke. "She's very stubborn," he added.


	6. Chapter 6

Just under a half of an hour later, they were making their way along a road consisting entirely of dirt, rocks, and potholes. When Sam complained about the constant jostling, Dean informed him that it was the only way to get to Candace's house, so Sam shut up and clung to the door-handle for dear life.

"Why would anyone choose to live out here?" Dean grumbled as he navigated around yet another area of nonexistent road. 

Much to Sam's confusion and envy, Cas didn't seem at all bothered by the constant motion, and his speech was unstilted when he replied, "Perhaps she enjoys the fact that it's in a secluded area."

"Secluded?" Dean repeated dubiously, keeping his eyes firmly on the lookout for more holes in the road. "This is where axe-murderers live! Her house takes 'secluded' to levels that are just plain creepy."

Sam couldn't help but agree with that, though he didn't say anything; he couldn't open his mouth without fearing that he'd bite his tongue off. He didn't have a clue as to how Dean and Cas were still capable of maintaining any semblance of a conversation.

"Cain lived on a bee farm," Cas reminded Dean.

Dean snorted and jerked the steering-wheel sharply to the left before straightening it out just as abruptly. "And you're telling me that there was nothing wrong with Cain?"

Cas's brow furrowed, seemingly of its own accord, and he responded with a simple, "I see your point."

"Cain?" Sam repeated, carefully keeping his tongue away from his teeth as he spoke. "As in 'Cain and Abel' Cain?"

Dean hauled the Impala to the far side of the road. "That's the one."

Sam wisely elected not to question their discussion of Cain as a modern inhabitant of the planet any further and, instead, chose to tighten his grip on the door-handle once more.

As they approached the old-fashioned ranch-house, the potholes became fewer and farther between, much to Sam's relief.

"Is that Candace's house?" Sam asked hopefully.

Dean nodded, turning the Impala into the driveway. "You'll be taking point on this one, Sammy," he added.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean clicked off the ignition. "She's not going to talk to me again—"

"You've got that right," Cas muttered.

"—and Cas is iffy at best, so …" he trailed off, glancing at Sam through the rearview mirror. "That cool?"

Sam shrugged and popped his door open. "Sure," he said easily. 

~~~

The door didn't even open before Sam's knock was answered with a "what the hell do you want?".

Sam glanced at his brother in surprise. Dean hadn't been kidding about the woman's temperament. "Ms. Miller, I'm Agent Morse, with the FBI. I'm investigating—"

"I don't give a hoot about what you're investigating!" she hollered in a stiff southern accent, still without opening the door. "If those other two monkeys are out there with you, I ain't assistin' anyone's investigation!"

Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean and nodded pointedly toward the car.

Dean rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath, but he shuffled silently off of the porch nonetheless and headed for the Impala. Cas had already gone back because he'd forgotten his badge, which made Sam's next job easier. 

"It's just me, Ms. Miller," Sam called once the other two were safely back in the Impala and out of sight. "I'd like to talk to you about the disappearance of—" 

The mail slot opened a crack, and two eyes peered out from behind it. "Mara Than?" 

"It'll only take a few minutes," Sam assured her.

"And those other two low-lifes ain't wif ya?" 

"No, ma'am."

The door cracked open, and the woman Sam assumed to be Candace Miller poked her head out suspiciously. Once she seemed satisfied that Sam was indeed alone, she gave a curt nod. "I s'pose you can come in," she said finally, jerking her thumb toward the inside hall. "Go on. Make it snappy."

~~~

"You've been sent away?" Cas asked knowingly as Dean slid back into the Impala.

Dean twisted the keys in the ignition, turning the air conditioning back on. "Sam can handle it," he replied. "The dude is like a giant puppy. Old people love him."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, then Cas asked thoughtfully, "How long do you think Sam will be?"

Dean shrugged. "Dunno. I guess it depends on how much the bitc—"

"I think you'll find 'curmudgeon' suffices."

"Fine. Curmudgeon." Dean gave Cas a look that very clearly conveyed the emotion of _whatever_. "How much the _curmudgeon knows_."

"I suppose you're right," Cas agreed, staring absently out the windshield. "And if she knows a lot?"

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Then it'll take him longer."

Cas nodded, as if this was a complex piece of information to digest. "I see. So … you're saying we'll be stuck waiting here, alone, for an unknowable amount of time?"

"Why?" Dean asked, teasing. "You got somewhere to be?"

Cas's lips turned up at the corners, just barely. "Not exactly," he answered. "What if we get bored?" His expression was just a tad too innocent for Dean not to notice it. 

Dean smirked. "I don't think that's going to be a problem."

Cas nodded once to himself, then he twisted himself in his seat so that he could reach into the backseat. When he returned his torso to the passenger's seat, he had the book he'd been reading that morning clutched firmly in his grasp. "It's a good thing I thought to bring this, then," he said, flipping it open, presumably to where he'd left off.

Dean stared at the book, then at Cas, his jaw a hair slacker than it normally was. "Did I just get replaced by a book?"

Cas didn't answer.

~~~

Sam forced himself to keep his polite smile in place, regretting more and more with every passing second the fact that he hadn't asked what had happened to make Candace hate Cas and Dean so much. As soon as his feet crossed Candace's threshold, she immediately slammed the door shut behind him, and Sam didn't find himself at all surprised when Candace turned straight back around and bolted not only the main lock but also four other additional ones. 

"Can never be too safe from non-believers," Candace mumbled when she turned and found Sam staring. "I guess I'm supposed to give you tea or something now, ain't I?" 

Sam just shook his head, pleased by the fact that he'd been able to keep the polite smile in place this long. "I'm fine."

"Good." Candace grunted as she all but pushed him into the sitting room. "I wasn't gonna give you any anyway."

The first thing Sam noticed about the sitting room was the mantle. It was covered entirely by various wooden carvings of major religious symbols, most of which looked hand-made. 

As he walked farther into the room, Sam began to notice the room's other surfaces—the coffee table, side-table, windowsill … They were all covered in the carvings. Sam wondered if they had ever been introduced to a dust-rag.

When Candace noticed his reaction to her memorabilia, she grunted again. "So I'm religious," she said defensively as she settled carefully into one of the armchairs. "Sue me." 

Sam blinked once, startled by her cold tone. "Sorry?"

Candace crossed her legs at the ankles. "Sit down, boy," she ordered him, jabbing her thumb at one of the chairs.

Sam wisely did as he was told. 

They sat in quiet for a moment, and Sam let it continue for longer than was entirely acceptable in a social setting because Candace seemed to be working to collect her thoughts. "Mara Than," she murmured eventually, her eyes sad. "She was a good girl."

Sam nodded sympathetically. He'd heard that line a thousand times, but it still managed to tug at his heartstrings. "I'm sure she was," he said, adding just the right amount of sympathy to his voice. "I need you to tell me anything you know about her. Who her family was, who her friends were, if she was into anything that could have resulted in her death. That sort of thing."

Candace snorted. "You're lookin' for Chalfon, ain't'cha?"

Sam did his very best to look like he knew who Candace was talking about. "The investigation is ongoing," he replied. "I can't divulge that sort of—"

"Oh, save it, boy," Candace cut him off. "I know how the system works. I ain't the ignorant fool you take me as." She wiggled in her chair, settling deeper into it. "We all thought Alfie—that's what he went by—was a good kid. But he got all weird a few weeks back—everyone thought it was drugs or something, but I _knew_ it wasn't, I tell you. Then he disappeared the same night Mara did, 'n, well, you can guess about how well that went over with her family. I'm pretty sure the locals got a warrant out on the kid, though." She glared at Sam. "Dunno why they need you."

"It's a, uh," Sam faltered, trying to come up with some legal jargon to feed her. 

"Hunters." Candace snorted dismissively. "Y'all think you're so stealthy. Well, I'll knock ya down a peg right and now. Ya ain't foolin' anyone."

Sam swallowed, using the motion to disguise his unease. "Pardon?"

Candace rolled her eyes. "Now, do you wanna tell me which one of those no-good mutants took my town's kids, or am I goin' to have to force it out of ya?"

"Uh," Sam stammered.

Candace narrowed her eyes. "I can go on for hours about my knick-knacks, if I need to," she warned him.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How do you know about …" He trailed off, leaving an all-inclusive gesture of his hand to finish the sentence for him. "All this?"

"Honey, my elevator may not reach the top floor anymore," Candace said reproachfully, "but that don't mean I forgot everything my mama taught me."

"Your mama?" Sam repeated.

Candace looked at him. "You think that just 'cause I'm older 'n dirt that I ain't got a past?"

Sam shook his head. Suddenly, the religion obsession didn't seem so strange anymore; he'd seen hunters, particularly older ones, crack under the pressure of the job before. John had always made sure to warn both him and Dean that, should either of them ever snap, he'd be the first to put them down. "Of course not," Sam assured her.

"Oh, hush up," Candace cut him off, looking almost offended that he'd dared to speak. "My _point_ is," she said, "I know when I've seen me a shifter. And Alfie was one of 'em. He was Mara's boyfriend, if you can believe it. For a spell, anyway. They broke up a few weeks back, when he went all funny." She snorted. "Guess I know why now."

"Right," Sam said cautiously, unsure if this old woman was truly a reliable source of information. "And, uh, what makes you so sure he was a shifter?"

In response to his question, Candace heaved herself up from her chair, seemingly with great difficulty, and shuffled across her sitting-room until she came to the mantle. She stared at a box on the end for a long moment, appearing to memorize the pattern the lines in its grain made, before she opened it. "I'm givin' you this," she said slowly as she removed a small piece of paper from inside, "in a great confidence. If you lose it …" she trailed off as she turned back around. "Well." She waved her arm absently at the room around her. "Not a single god will be able to keep you from my wrath."

Sam stiffened, mildly worried by the suddenly violent turn the conversation had taken. "Yes, ma'am."

"And if you find him," Candace went on, holding the square of paper to her chest, "you have to promise me that you won't kill him. Not right away. Y'all gotta find out where Alfie and Mara are first. I won't have it any other way, ya hear?"

"Of course," Sam said instinctively, despite the fact that he knew he likely wouldn't be able to make good on the promise. He knew that it was, at best, unlikely that the shifter was keeping its victims alive.

Candace nodded, as if placated. "Good." With that, she made her way back across the room and handed him a picture of a young man sitting in a lawn chair, wearing a thread-bare beanie and staring at something out of the frame. His bangs flopped into his forehead, and his hand was blurred partway through the motion of pushing them out of his way, but it wasn't the hand that caught Sam's attention. It was the man's eyes; they glowed a bright yellow.

"Where did you get this?" Sam asked, looking up at Candace, who was hovering over him.

Candace raised an eyebrow. "Barbara's place," she answered. "Down the way. She was havin' some picnic or somethin' for the neighborhood, and I had my camera. I knew somethin' wasn't right with Alfie, and I know what's out there. I figured I owed it to his mama to make sure he was okay." She sighed, almost forlornly. "Losin' a kid ain't somethin' anyone should have to go through."

Sam nodded gently in agreement. "No," he agreed. "No, it isn't."

"Makes it sort of hard to believe in angels and the whatnot, doesn't it?" Candace murmured, her eyes focused on something over Sam's head.

Sam swallowed, images of Jess's father falling, falling, falling to the floor coursing through his mind … "It sure does," he agreed.

Abruptly, Candace stiffened, drawing herself to her full height, albeit a still unimpressive one. "That's from a few days before Mara disappeared, at the neighborhood picnic. Make of it what you will," she said, shocking Sam with her crisp, unbothered tone. "But if you lose it, I'll shoot you myself."

Sam furrowed his brow, confused. "Ma'am, I don't mean to be rude, but this doesn't seem to be … it doesn't seem to have any value," he hedged.

"Ain't anybody ever told ya that sayin' you don't mean to be one way ain't the same as not bein' that way?" Candace asked pointedly.

Sam colored. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to offend—"

"Because my daughter bought me the photo-paper."

Sam looked up, both startled and further confused.

Candace seemed just as startled by her outburst. "She passed on last year," she said by way of explanation. "She was a hunter."

"Ah," Sam said. "I'm sorry."

Candace ignored him, choosing instead to turn and shuffle across the room to the window, muttering under her breath the whole way. "Look at 'em goin' at it …" she grumbled, glaring at something out the window.

"Look at what?" Sam asked.

"Like damn rabbits, I say," Candace added grouchily. "Well," she huffed, turning pointedly away from the window. "I don't need to see any more of _that_."

Sam's debated internally whether or not to pursue the topic but elected not to for his own good. Instead, he simply tucked the photograph into his breast-pocket and looked up, working hard to keep his expression open. "I'll be sure to keep this safe," he assured Candace, patting the pocket now containing the picture.

Candace gave a curt jerk of her chin. "You'd better."

Sam fought the urge to stick his tongue out at her. "If you knew that Alfie was a shifter—"

"Your hair is too long," Candace interrupted him, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Sam turned a soft shade of pink and dipped his chin in acknowledgement. "Thanks," he said. He then returned to the topic at hand. "If you knew that Alfie had been taken by a shifter, why didn't you call a hunter?"

Candace narrowed her eyes and leveled her unwavering glare on Sam. "I did," she retorted. "But those two softies puttin' on such a show in my driveway are the ones that showed up." She gestured with a bracelet-covered arm in the direction of the window she'd been looking out a moment ago. "It ain't my fault they thought I'd already lost it."

Sam could only imagine the show Candace was referring to—if the trunk was open, it wasn't as if the arsenal inside was hard to spot. But it didn't seem that Candace was talking about an exposed hunter's arsenal …

With a blink, Sam pulled his attention back to Candace's sitting room. "Do you happen to know where Alfie lived?" he asked on a whim, turning the topic once again. "Where he liked to hang out? Stuff like that?"

"He lived 'bout a stone's throw down the road," she answered curtly. "And that's all I know."

Sam resisted the urge to smack the woman. "What about an address?" he inquired, making a concerted effort to keep his exasperation out of his voice. 

"It's that a-ways a piece," Candace answered, tossing one hand absently in the direction she meant. "I don't pay much attention to my neighbors, 'cept when it's Barbara's kids. A damn bunch of non-believers, that's what the rest of 'em are. Like the other guys that were here."

Sam dutifully ignored the jab at his brother and Cas. "Could you tell me what the house looks like, at least?"

Candace glared at him. "Do I look like Noodle to you?"

Sam felt his eyebrows pinch together. "Do you mean Google?"

"No," Candace replied firmly. "It's called Noodle."

"Right," Sam said. "Of course." It took a minute of Candace glaring at him and shifting her gaze pointedly to the door for Sam to realize that Candace was preparing to kick him out. "Well, then. I think that's all—"

"It'd better be."

Sam wanted to sigh, but he realized it would only antagonize her further. So, rather than risk their only source of information on the case, Sam simply stood and extended his hand. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Miller."

Candace stared at his hand until he dropped it. "Tell yer two dumber than stump buddies to stay away from here when you go, would ya? Folks around here ain't so open to whatever it is they call what they was doing."

"Er," Sam said. "Sure. I'll, uh, let them know."

~~~

"Dude," Sam said as he slid back into the backseat of the Impala. "What did you guys do to her? She hates your guts."

Dean turned the key in the ignition and turned to Cas before he began backing up. "Did I or did I not tell him so, Cas?"

Cas nodded in that matter-of-fact way of his. "You did."

"Yeah," Sam said, grabbing onto the door-handle again as the car started moving forward. "It's hilarious. You told me so. Haha. Why does she hate you so much? And, you know, me too now by extension?"

Dean grinned without shame, running a hand through his hair. "I might have suggested that she was, uh, a little off her rocker when I saw her little 'collection'. I mean, it's friggn' _huge_."

"She didn't take kindly to that," Cas interjected, still totally at ease with the wild way Dean was whipping back and forth to avoid the potholes. "She chased us from her home with a statue of the Buddha."

"So much for not harming other living beings and all that, eh?" Dean quipped, maneuvering the Impala deftly around a particularly large pothole in the middle of the road.

Sam rolled his eyes. Unsurprisingly, it seemed that Dean's jokes had yet to improve in quality.

But Cas seemed to find it funny—he was still smiling, and that, in turn, caused Dean to smile too.

Sam looked between the two of them, wondering if there was something he'd missed. They didn't seem to be amused by an inside joke of some sort but appeared to be amused by each other, which made Sam all the more confused. And the _way_ they were smiling …


	7. Chapter 7

"Did she say where this 'Alfie' is?" Dean asked skeptically, pacing back and forth across the small motel room. "A last name? An address? Anything?"

Sam shook his head and rearranged himself on his bed. If there was one thing he hadn't missed about hunting, it was the eternally lumpy mattresses. "Not exactly," he admitted. "But—"

Dean forced a sarcastic grin. "Well, that's great," he proclaimed, inadvertently cutting Sam off. "Maybe we can ask the fairies for help too. They'd probably be about as helpful as your new friend."

Cas snorted, his knee knocking against the bottom of the flimsy three-legged table and nearly causing it to topple over. "I doubt they'd want to lend you any assistance after your last encounter."

Dean turned to Cas, his expression very clearly informing him that he was not, in fact, helping here. "All we've got is a picture," Dean went on, turning back to Sam. "A single picture that, I might add, we don't even know for sure is of Alfie. It could be a picture of the old lady's neighbor's dog-sitter for all we know."

Sam shrugged helplessly. "Maybe," he admitted. "But Candace seemed pretty convinced that that's what the shifter looks like—or looked like, anyway. I guess it could be Mara now too."

Dean glared at him. "Aren't you helpful tonight?" he grumbled.

Sam ignored the jibe. "She did say that Alfie lived up the road from her," he added. "I know it's a long shot, but—"

At that, Cas perked up a bit. "A long shot is better than no shot," he said, as if reciting the words.

Dean looked at Cas, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Something about the sudden softness of Dean's stance made Sam wonder if he'd—yet again—failed to understand one of their inside jokes.

After a moment of the intense staring Sam was beginning to realize was the norm for them, Dean spoke again. "Fine," he conceded, settling himself into the chair across from Cas. "We'll look into Alfie tomorrow. But right now, I'm ready for my four hours."

"If you're tired," Cas said idly, still sitting at the table and playing absently with a bottle opener, "you could always go back to the room and sleep."

Dean mumbled something unintelligible, his eyes focused on the tabletop.

"What?" Cas asked innocently. 

Dean locked eyes with Cas again, as if challenging him. A moment later, something in the air snapped. Dean turned back to Sam. "Can we do this in the morning?" he requested, already heading in the direction of the door. "I'm pretty sure I'm too tired to think straight right now."

"You never think straight," Cas muttered, almost too quietly to be heard.

Sam shrugged. He didn't care much; he was tired too. It had been a long, though relatively uneventful, day. "Sure," he agreed easily. 

At that, Cas rose from the table and gave Sam another one of those hesitant half-smiles he'd given him in the parking lot that morning. He turned to Dean. "Do we have to use the door?" he inquired. 

Dean rolled his eyes. "You know a better way to get back to the room?" he asked. "It's not like we can just zap back to the room or anything like that," he added pointedly.

"Of course not," Cas acquiesced. "Wouldn't that be hilarious?" he added under his breath. 

Dean pretended he hadn't heard and ushered Cas out of the room, tossing a "night, Sammy!" over his shoulder. 

That night, as Sam laid alone in the dark, he couldn't help but marvel over how easily he had slipped back into the life. What had started as the occasional hunt had quickly turned into a dangerous, slippery slope. And that slope had been easy, far, far too easy, to tumble down.

~~~

It was to an excited "Dean!" and rapid shaking that Dean woke up that night. "Whaddya want?" he mumbled, face still buried securely in his pillow. "It's the middle of the damn night, Cas. 'M sleeping."

Cas huffed in annoyance and gave a final, merciless shake to Dean's shoulder. "Dean," he protested. "Wake up. It _is_ important."

Dean lifted his face from the pillow just enough to crack half an eye open. "Cas, if this is another bee emergency, I swear to your dad—"

"That was one time, Dean."

"One time too ma—"

"I was suffering a psychotic break!"

Dean harrumphed and wiggled his way out of the blankets, bare feet finding the cold floor with a shock. "Well, when you put it like that …" he griped, the end of the sentence punctuated by a wide, gaping yawn.

Cas scrambled back off of the bed, hurrying back over to the table had been sitting at prior to waking Dean. "I have found something I believe to have the potential to revolutionize the hunting world as we know it," he said matter-of-factly as he retook his seat.

Dean dragged himself into a sitting position, running his hands over his face while his sleep-addled mind made sense of the words. "What?" he asked, still far too sleepy to entirely process what Cas could possibly mean.

Cas shifted impatiently, making his chair squeak painfully against the floor's tiles. "Dean, get up."

"I am up," Dean retorted, forcing himself off of the bed and into a standing position. "All right," he grumbled, padding over to other chair at the table. "What's so important it can't wait until I've had my four hours?"

Cas gestured for him to sit down and pushed the volume he'd been pouring over in the days previous across the table, his index finger hovering over a particular passage. "I believe you'll find that bit rather interesting."

Dean gave him a stink eye. "It's the middle of the night, and you want me to translate Latin?" he surmised.

Cas nodded. "If you don't mind."

Dean heaved a resigned sigh and did his best to focus on the faded ink in front of him. He skimmed the paragraph, pupils expanding and contracting against the flickering light in the room. When he was finished, he guessed half-heartedly, "Something about Devil's Traps and silver?" He waited for Cas to respond, but he didn't. "C'mon, Cas. Just tell me."

Cas shook his head and pushed the book closer to Dean. "Make an effort," he said.

"Fine," Dean grumbled. " _Necesse addere_ …" he mumbled under his breath, " _argenti laqueum diaboli_ —Cas, would you just tell me what this is?"

"I'm not sure what it is exactly," Cas admitted, rotating the book so that he could read it too. "But here," he pointed at another passage, " ' _A et laqueum diaboli captionem monstraque sunt non genii voluntatem argentum de auro purissimo fabricatum_ ,' " he read, getting more and more excited with each passing word. "That seems fairly clear."

Suddenly, Dean could see why Cas was so excited. "A Devil's Trap—made of pure silver … will trap monsters that are not demons," he translated aloud, silently repeating Cas's words to himself as he spoke. "Cas," he murmured, impressed, "this could be big."

Cas bobbed his head up and down, his unbrushed hair flouncing against his scalp. "Of course, this book is old—"

"Right," Dean acknowledged his hesitance. "And we could be translating it wrong."

"Or there could be a word that has another meaning," Cas added. "Perhaps that word would alter the sentence to something entirely different."

"Sure," Dean said. A pause. "But it's worth a shot, right?"

"It'll be expensive," Cas warned him.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "It's not like we use our own credit cards."

For a moment, they simply sat at the table grinning at each other. Then, Dean said, "When we go to Alfie's house—"

Cas's eyes widened as he realized what Dean was about to say. "Do you think …?"

"I think it's worth a shot," Dean answered. "If this _does_ work …" He trailed off, imagining all that could come of this discovery. "I don't think you were wrong when you said you'd found something that could change the hunting world. You remember what happened when we found the original Devil's Trap?"

Cas nodded tentatively, though his eyes dropped back to the parchment, his air of confidence dissipating rapidly. "But if I'm wrong?"

"Then you're wrong," Dean said nonchalantly. "Who cares? At least we tried. And—what's the worst case scenario? We end up with the world's most expensive Devil's Trap?"

To that, Cas laughed, a short, small thing. "I'm not sure that would give us any bragging rights, Dean," he said wryly.

"Maybe not." Dean shrugged. "But, c'mon, Cas. You know me. Am I someone that cares about bragging rights?"

Cas looked pointedly over Dean's shoulder, out the window and at the Impala. 

Dean didn't bother to check that Cas was looking at the Impala; he didn't need to. "Point taken."


	8. Chapter 8

As it turned out, "that a-ways a piece" meant a few miles down the road from Candace's house, which, in turn, meant Sam received the oh-so-enviable pleasure of riding in the backseat of the Impala while it bounced and jostled its way down the pothole-infested road once again.

Thankfully, the drive out to where Candace had said Alfie's house was took only a few minutes more than the drive to Candace's had, and Dean and Cas seemed relatively preoccupied for most of the drive, so Sam was saved from any more potential "were your parents religious?" conversations.

"Do you think he lived with anyone else?" Sam asked as Dean parked in the house's driveway, eyeing the two-story farmhouse warily. 

"Guess we'll find out," Dean answered, yanking the keys from the ignition. 

With that, almost scarily in sync, Dean and Cas opened their respective doors and exited the car, leaving Sam to fumble his way out after them. 

Dean headed immediately for the trunk, popping the lid with practiced ease. 

Cas joined him in surveying the mini-arsenal at their disposal, and they stood for a moment, deciding what they wanted. 

Sam waited patiently for them, suddenly feeling sub-par with only his silver bullets and iron knife, though he knew it was all he really needed.

When Dean pulled his white .45 from the pile of firearms in the bottom of the trunk, Sam was almost overcome by a wave of nostalgia. "You still use that?" Sam found himself asking.

Dean shoved the gun into his waistband and offered the 9mm in his other hand to Cas, who took it awkwardly. " 'Course I do," he said matter-of-factly, as if he couldn't imagine using another gun. "It ganks the crap it needs to."

Cas stared at the gun in his hand warily. "Dean …" he started. "You know I don't ne—"

Dean turned, something urgent in his features that Sam couldn't discern once his back was turned. "Don't you want a weapon?" he asked, using that same pointed tone he'd used in Sam's motel room. 

To that, Cas hardened his eyes, though his expression softened. "Of course," he answered. "How silly of me."

They stared at each other a moment longer, leaving Sam to stand by feeling confused and uncomfortably like a third-wheel. It took him clearing his throat to get them to turn their attention back to their location. 

"You know what to do, Sammy?" Dean asked as he and Cas began to move toward the front porch.

Sam rolled his eyes and fell into step behind them. "Silver bullet to the head," he replied in the know-it-all tone he'd perfected in the months before his departure for Stanford. "This isn't exactly my first shifter," he added.

Dean grimaced at some old memory. "You know I did everything I could to keep Dad from—"

Sam cut him off with a stiff jerk of his chin. "I know," he said simply, stepping carefully onto the rickety old porch. 

Cas turned away from the window he'd been peering through. "It doesn't appear as if there's anyone home," he said, "though they could be upstairs."

Dean nodded. "Right then," he said, surveying the door. Before either Sam or Cas could react, he'd kicked the door in. "Anyone home?" he called, voice echoing through the house.

Cas just rolled his eyes and muttered something about old habits dying hard as he followed Dean carefully over the fallen door. Sam wasn't sure he wanted to know.

By the time Sam joined them inside, Dean was already poised at the bottom of the main staircase, Cas standing dutifully beside him. "We'll take the upstairs," Dean said, jerking his head at the stairs. "You cool with this floor?"

"Sure," Sam agreed easily. As far as he could tell, there wasn't any difference. 

With a mock salute, Dean took off up the stairs. Cas trailed behind him, albeit with not nearly as much enthusiasm.

Sam headed back toward the front rooms, gun held firmly in front of him. As he moved through the rooms, poking through drawers and chests and cabinets, he found himself relieved that neither Dean nor Cas were following behind him. 

Much as Sam hated to admit it, he'd fallen so far out of touch with Dean that his obvious complete trust in Cas made him hesitant to put too much trust back in his brother. 

Cas was responsible, intentionally or not, for years of misery for both Jess and himself following her father's death. Why should he go out of his way to forge any sort of relationship with the person that had been the cause of the event that forced him back into the life he had tried so desperately to leave?

Sam clenched his jaw and paused just outside the archway leading into the kitchen, forcing those thoughts to the back of his head. _Concentrate_ , he reminded himself. 

He stepped into the kitchen.

~~~

"I thought you said you told him," Cas said, effortlessly moving silently across the creaky floorboards.

Dean, not for the first time, found himself mildly jealous of some of the smaller perks of angelic status. "Told who what?" he asked, poking through a desk drawer that would likely yield nothing to their search.

"Told Sam," Cas replied, coming to stand behind Dean's shoulder. He reached a hand out, palm facing toward the desk's surface, and moved it carefully across it. "There's nothing of significance in that," he announced when he was finished.

Dean bit his tongue, holding one of his many snappy comebacks at bay. "Told Sam what?" he asked, hauling himself to his feet.

Cas gave him a look, as if he were intentionally being difficult. "About us—"

From the direction of the kitchen, Sam's voice rang out. "Someone's been here!" he yelled.

Dean gave Cas a pained look, tightening his grip on his gun. "Can we talk about this later?"

"Dishes!" Sam added. "A few days old, I think."

Dean's eyes flickered toward the door and he called out a quick "Roger that, Sammy!" before turning back to Cas, expression pleading as he took a few steps closer to him. "Don't get me wrong—I'm not avoiding anything here—"

"Of course not," Cas said. He knew Dean wouldn't hide things from him anymore. 

"—I just don't know that the middle of a monster's house is the best place to have a Chick Fli—"

"Take out!" Sam hollered. "From this morning!"

Cas locked eyes with Dean, and they came to a silent agreement. "Later, then," Cas said.

Then, with a restored urgency, they went back to searching the upstairs. 

The only other excitement was when Dean came across fresh—in more than one sense—laundry in the bathroom hamper. 

"The sink is still wet," Cas said, dragging the pad of his pointer finger over its lip. "I'd say it's been less than hour since its usage."

Dean hummed in acknowledgement. "That must mean that the shifter left for the night," he said. "Lucky us." 

"Or it could mean that it's still here, hiding as a result of its self-preservation instinct," Cas added, oblivious to Dean's amusement as he spoke. 

"Cas," Dean said with a small chuckle, turning to glance over his shoulder at the man in question, "you're pretty normal most of the time, but you still say the weirdest stuff, you know that?"

Cas frowned. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" he asked seriously.

Dean rolled his eyes melodramatically. "Good thing," he assured Cas. "The best thing."

In the sink's mirror, Dean was able to see a small smile spread across Cas's face. "Thank you, Dean," he said.

For a moment, Dean actually thought Cas was going to accept the compliment. 

"But I doubt I am 'the best thing'," Cas went on. "Especially if the category you're judging me in is 'people skills'."

To that, Dean almost gave a full laugh. "Yeah," he agreed, "your people skills stink." He let the lid of the laundry basket fall back down with a _thunk_. "But you're still hilarious."

"Even if I don't mean to be?" Cas asked dubiously, turning away from the sink's mirror.

Dean let a grin spread slowly across his face. "Especially then," he answered.

~~~

A while later, they congregated once more in the main hall. 

"We missed him," Dean proclaimed, frustrated. "He was here."

"We couldn't have known," Cas said placatingly. "Besides, it looks like he's been here regularly. He may come back."

"He's got a point," Sam said, suddenly feeling antsy. "What if he comes back while we're still here?"

Dean's expression turned devious. "What's wrong, Samantha?" he teased him. "Scared of a shifter?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "If it sees the Impala in its driveway, it's not like it's going to walk in and welcome us to dinner."

Dean grinned. "Glad to see your snark is still in tact," he said, almost proudly. Then he abruptly changed tones. "Cas and I brought some extra stuff with us. It's this, uh, I don't know, experimental type of Devil's Trap? Cas found it last night in one of the books from the bunker, and we were thinking this would make a good sort of test-case—"

"Last night?" Sam interrupted Dean. "You found out about this 'experimental trap' _last night_ , and you want to use it?"

Dean opened his mouth to respond but it was Cas that ultimately did. "It's a variation of a trap we've used numerous times," he explained. "I assure you, there are no unwanted side-effects."

Sam was still doubtful, but, despite any qualms he had about his brother's new hunting partner, he trusted Dean's judgement. "Okay, fine," he relented. "How long will it take to set up?"

"Same amount of time as a regular Devil's Trap," Dean answered. "Praise to the genius, eh?" he added, turning proudly to Cas. "He found this spray-paint with silver powder already mixed in. They use it for knock-off jewelry or some shit."

At that, Sam couldn't help but be mildly impressed. "You guys found out about this—whatever it is—last night and already have the supplies?"

"I don't sleep," Cas replied nonchalantly. "It leaves an abundance of time available to … acquire items."

Sam snorted, ignoring the joke about not-sleeping. The man traveled with Dean, after all. Not sleeping was a requirement. "Acquire items?" he repeated, his lawyer instincts kicking in despite himself. "Is that what they call stealing these days?"

It was immediately made obvious through Dean's expression that Sam had overstepped, but Cas didn't seem fazed. "I left a note explaining our need for the paint," he assured Sam. "I'm sure no one minded."

Sam felt a sudden urge to pull his hair out. Dean had definitely trained this guy.


	9. Chapter 9

"This stuff comes out too slowly," Dean complained, not for the first time, as he worked his way through the motions of the creation of a Devil's Trap pattern. "I have to go over the same place ten friggin' times, I swear—"

"Dean," Cas interrupted him, "it's made for jewelry. It's meant to come out in small bursts for precision."

Dean huffed and shook the can, as if that would make the paint flow more quickly. "I'm glad this is the last one then," he griped. 

Cas glanced at the doorway, seeming to expect Sam to return from the Impala any second, though he had just left. "If you'd just let me use some of my—"

"No," Dean cut him off. Though his tone was rough, his face when he looked up was weary. "Don't get me wrong, Cas. I want you to. I do. I just …" He hesitated, and something in his eyes was reminiscent of the man that Cas had met all those years ago—emotionally repressed and an idiot. But that small something quickly dissipated—he wasn't that man anymore. "I just got my brother back," he finally said, continuing his work on the symbol for lack of anything else to do with his hands. "I can't risk losing him again, Cas. I can't. Not yet."

For a long moment, Cas said nothing, and Dean began to worry that he'd angered him. But when Cas did speak, his voice wasn't at all confrontational. In fact, it was almost gentle. "I understand," he said. "Losing your family …" He shrugged. "I know how that feels," he said simply. 

Dean looked up again, memories of Cas in the weeks and months after his first Fall from Heaven flashing all too vividly through his mind. "Cas, I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't." Cas offered him a small smile, letting him know that it was okay. "I only meant to say that I understand that fear. I don't hold it against you."

Dean's eyes found Cas's, and Dean found himself unconsciously mirroring Cas's smile. "Thanks, Cas," he said quietly. His tone soured, though, as he continued. "But I'm not—I can't ask you to keep doing this."

Cas tilted his chin the side, looking scarily similar to a confused kitten. "If you're afraid of Sam's reaction—"

"I am," Dean said firmly, the paint can momentarily forgotten. "Terrified," he added. "But that doesn't, not even a little bit, make it fair for me to keep asking you to do this."

"I'd do anything you asked," Cas replied automatically, which tore at Dean's heartstrings.

Dean shook his head bashfully and his eyes plummeted to the floor. "Someday I've got to figure out what I did to deserve you," he told the nearly-finished Devil's Trap.

Cas cocked his head half a degree to the side and stared at Dean. "I could say the same," he said.

Dean tightened his lips, eyes tightening along with them, and turned his attention back to the Devil's Trap. "Sometimes I wonder if those Leviathans left your head permanently messed up," he murmured, the words once more accompanied by the soft _whoosh_ of the spray paint.

Cas let forth a soft chuckle. "I assure you, I'm in my right mind," he said in reply.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Dean retorted, a mischievous glint finding its way into his eyes.

They sat in relative quiet for a moment after that, Dean watching his hands carefully as he continued his work on the Devil's Trap and Cas watching Dean.

Abruptly, Dean spoke again. "The end of the hunt," he said, as if deciding something. "As soon as we've ganked the shifter. Sam's going to leave then anyway."

Cas blinked once, as if pulling himself out of some inward conversation. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"That's—what, two days tops, probably sooner?" Dean went on. "No more hiding," he said determinedly. "No more of this crap. You taught me that." He pointed at Cas to emphasize the point. "Rebellion is the answer when it comes to family, right? As far as I'm concerned, Sam can deal. He's a big boy."

Cas looked like he was about to protest. "Dean—"

"No, Cas," Dean stopped him, shaking his head. "It's not fair of me to ask this of you anymore. I was done hiding the second I met you."

Had he not been filled with angelic grace, Dean felt sure Cas would have melted into a puddle of Chick-Flick-Moment-infused goop. As it were, though, Sam chose that moment to re-enter the house, shouting something about one of the neighbors—a Mr. Fisgon—beginning to ask questions.

Cas and Dean shared a look that quite clearly said, " _Well, shit._ " 

"We've got ten minutes left in here, then we're done," Dean called, hurriedly returning to the shape he was finishing. 

Sam came clomping through the hall, finding his way quickly to the back hall where Dean and Cas were. Cas was standing stiffly in the corner, simply watching Dean work. He didn't seem bored though, which seemed odd. But Sam didn't even bother trying to figure that out.

As he neared them, he almost tripped over the welcome mat strewn across the middle of the hall but saved himself at the last moment with the doorframe. With an exasperated sigh, Sam righted himself. "I told the neighbor that we're insurance investigators," he said, electing to ignore the near-mishap, "but I don't think he bought it. I'd say we've got about a half-hour tops before the cops show up."

"Mmkay," Dean mumbled, putting the finishing touches on the last figure. "There we are. Done," he proclaimed. Dean barely had to glance at Cas for him to take the two steps forward necessary to reach the welcome mat and hand it to him. "Thanks," he said, dropping it over the trap. 

Sam eyed the area the mat had just covered uncertainly. "Are you sure that's going to work?" he asked, his tone mirroring his thoughts.

"Well—" Cas started.

"We think so," Dean said, heaving himself to his feet so that he could shove the can of spray paint back into the duffel bag he'd brought in from the Impala.

Just then, there was a knock at the front door. 

Sam turned abruptly toward it, frowning deeply. "I thought—" He shook his head. "I'll deal with it," he volunteered, heading back to the front hall without another word.

For half a second, Dean and Cas stood in silence, unsure of what they should do.

Suddenly, Cas spoke. "I have an idea," he said casually, as if he thought nothing of it.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "What sort of idea?"

Cas shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a movement so human that Dean almost laughed. "If I could syphon some of my Grace into the traps," he explained, "they might work like a, well, a booby-trap—"

Hearing Cas, in his perpetually deep, serious voice, say the word 'booby-trap' sent Dean giggling like a little school girl. "Sorry," he said, pulling himself back together. "Go on."

Cas gave him a patented stink-eye but went on nonetheless. "Assuming that the traps work," he said, "if I added some of my Grace to them, in theory, I would be able to feel it when they were … 'sprung', so to speak. Of course, I can't be sure as I've never tried it be—"

"Hang on," Dean interrupted, suddenly entirely serious, taking a step toward Cas. "Are you talking about giving up your Grace for a shifter hunt? Buddy, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to let you do that."

Cas looked affronted. "Of course not," he replied. "Just a small amount. I replenish my Grace all the time. It would be similar to when you give your blood for a sigil."

"And it wouldn't have any long term effects?" Dean checked.

Cas shook his head. "None whatsoever," he confirmed. 

Dean shifted from one foot to the other uncertainly. "Do you really think it would work?" he asked. " 'Cause if this is another one of your 'sacrificing yourself for the greater good' plans, I ain't lettin' it fly." 

Cas shrugged. "It might, but it also might not," he answered truthfully. "I'm honestly not sure. But I thought—we're trying the traps themselves out tonight. Why not try something else too?"

"It won't hurt you?" Dean clarified, wavering on the line between allowing Cas to try and not. 

Cas shook his head. "No more than giving blood for a sigil would for you," he reiterated confidently.

Dean dug his toe into the floorboard, looking around the hall as if to ask the walls for another argument. "Okay," he said finally. "But we've only got a few minutes to get out of here," he added by way of warning.

Cas nodded. "It won't take more than a few seconds at each one," he assured Dean.

From the main hall, they could hear Sam's voice rising steadily. 

Dean glanced worriedly in his brother's direction. "I'll go help Sam with whichever nosy neighbor is poking around," he decided. "Be careful."

"I always am," Cas replied.

Dean rolled his eyes as he turned away. "If that were true," he called over his shoulder, "I'd never have to worry again."


	10. Chapter 10

Dim lighting, seedy looking people with seedier looking mustaches, cracked leather, and the scent of watered-down booze—those were the major descriptive factors of the bar Dean decided to take them to. 

When Sam realized that Dean wasn't taking them back to the motel, his initial reaction was one of confusion. But as the neon sign declaring the bar's presence came into sight, it was quickly replaced by hesitance.

His memories of bars were mostly of a much-more-than-drunk John Winchester throwing himself at anything with breasts that moved, so he wasn't thrilled by the prospect of spending an evening in one, but he found he didn't have the energy to protest as Dean pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car, announcing that it was time for a preemptive celebratory round of beers. 

Besides, that period of his life was far behind him—permanently, it seemed. Sam still wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that his father wouldn't be making a reappearance.

A few minutes later, Sam, Dean, and Cas were making their way to what Sam was pretty sure qualified as the world's smallest booth. As they got themselves situated, Sam couldn't help but notice how automatically Cas and Dean squished themselves into one side of the booth. Sam's initial reaction was to write it off as being polite, but still, there was something … 

Before the conversation could turn to small things like how they expected the hunt to go—Dean was still a terrible conversationalist and had evidently trained Cas in the same fashion—Sam found himself blurting out, "Apocalypses."

Dean gave him a funny look. "What?" he asked, obviously a little peeved that Sam had cut him off. But Sam realized he couldn't remember what Dean had been talking about, so he figured it couldn't have been all that important. 

"I wanted—you said you'd stopped the apocalypse," Sam clarified, giving himself a mental kick for his lack of tact. "I was just wondering, you know, how you did that."

Cas furrowed his brow. "Which one?" he asked seriously.

Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Which one?" he repeated. "I thought you were joking when you said you'd stopped more than one." Seeing their faces, he suddenly wondered if opening this can of worms had been as bright an idea as he'd originally thought.

Dean just lifted his shoulders and let them fall, completely at ease. He took a moment, seeming to pull his thoughts together. "I guess it depends on how you define apocalypse," he said finally. "Are we talking Hell Gates or Lucifer walking the earth?"

"Or the Leviathans," Cas grumbled into the lip of his beer bottle.

Dean shot him a look. "You were doing what you thought was right," he said. From the expression on both his face and Cas's, it was obvious that the two had had this conversation before.

But none of that registered entirely with Sam, because he was still stuck on what Dean had said before that. "Did you—did you say 'Lucifer walking the earth'?" he asked.

"Oh," Dean said, snapping his attention back to Sam. "Yeah." He took a swig of beer. "He was a real douchebag."

Sam's eyes widened. "Are you—did you just call the Devil a douchebag?"

Dean looked up, as if confused by Sam's shock. "Unless you know another Lucifer …" he trailed off, leaving his statement unfinished. 

For a moment, Sam was tempted to work in a crack about the Japanese rock band called Lucifer, but he refrained. "And—you, what, just shot him?" he asked disbelievingly. 

Dean looked at his younger brother as if he had just informed him that the sun rose in the north. 

"We tried," Cas admitted. "There was a gun—the Colt—and we thought it would be capable of dispatching Lucifer, but …"

"He was the Devil," Dean finished. "Bullets didn't do squat."

Cas nodded. "We had some help from another ang—from my friend, Gabriel," he continued. "I was able to stop Lucifer from killing him at a hotel, so he felt he owed me a debt—"

"Which certainly made our lives easier," Dean added, following the statement with a swig of his beer.

Cas _hmm_ ed in agreement. "We collected the rings of the Four Horsemen," he went on, "but we needed help to trick Michael and Lucifer into the trap."

"Michael?" Sam repeated, catching the new name.

Dean shook his head forcefully, as if to warn Sam away from that line of questioning. "He might not have been on Lucifer's side, but that doesn't mean he was on the right one." He glanced down at his bottle and added a soft "dick" under his breath.

Cas just sighed. "He wasn't always as … forward as he was when you met him," he said, almost sounding like he felt he had to defend Michael, whoever he was.

"They were still both dicks," Dean replied, ever the mature one. 

Cas just sighed. "You didn't know them—"

"Lucifer blew you up because we tried to stop him from starting the apocalypse," Dean reminded Cas. "I'm pretty sure that makes him a dick."

At that, Sam cut in. "Lucifer blew you up?" he asked, directing the question at Cas.

"Yes," Cas answered bluntly, "but it was … temporary."

Sam blinked. "Temporarily blown up?" he repeated dubiously.

Though the words were directed at Cas, it was Dean that replied. "Death usually is for us, for whatever reason."

Sam swallowed, forcing himself to push that information to the back of his mind to deal with later. "So you—what, tricked Lucifer into walking into his own trap?"

"With help from Gabriel, of course," Cas said by way of affirmation.

Sam couldn't help it; he gaped. "So you guys just … tricked the Devil into walking into his own trap, saved the world, and now you talk about it like it was just another Tuesday?"

Cas crinkled his nose. "Never a Tuesday," he said, his face looking as if he was repressing some unpleasant memory. "A Thursday, perhaps. I don't mind Thursdays. Or Saturdays, for that matter."

Dean rolled his eyes, though the slight upturning of his lips gave away his amusement. "At this point, Lucifer _is_ just another Tuesday—or, Thursday." Despite the fact that the words were as immodest as they could possibly be, it was evident that Dean didn't mean them that way; they were a simply statement of fact to him.

To that, Sam raised his bottle to his lips, taking a long gulp. When he was finished, he all but dropped it back on the tabletop. "Guess I missed a few things," he mumbled.

~~~

It was a few hours later—early morning—that Cas went stiff.

Dean looked up from his laptop, where he'd been aimlessly browsing the web, and watched Cas closely for a long moment. "Cas?" he asked. "You good?"

Cas tilted his head, as if considering his answer carefully. "I believe so," he responded after what felt like a long time. "I think—" He cut off, staring into space as if mentally assessing something. "I think the trap has been sprung."

It took a second for the words' meaning to filter through to Dean, and by the time they had, Cas was on his feet, the same look that always preceded a flapping-away plastered clearly across his face. 

"Woah! Hey, wait a second," Dean yelped, springing up to grab Cas by the shirt-sleeve. "You think I'm going to let you just flutter away like some dumb baby bird?"

"Dean—" Cas started. He stopped, his brow furrowing. "I don't understand—"

"Simile, Cas," Dean said patiently, glad he'd distracted him. "It's a simile."

"Oh." Cas seemed to think it over for a moment, but, judging by the set of his shoulders, he quickly gave up. "I should go check on the traps," he said finally, shifting reluctantly away from Dean's grasp.

"Sure," Dean agreed, his easy surrender surprising Cas. "But I'm coming with you." Then, because he could see Cas gearing up to argue, he went on. "Don't even think about trying to tell me to stay here. We have no way of knowing what's going to be there—"

"I'm an angel," Cas reminded Dean. "It's a shifter. I'll be fine."

"Cas—" Dean started, but he was suddenly talking to an empty room. " _Dammit_."


	11. Chapter 11

Sam doubted that Dean would have had the patience to knock on his door if not for the fact that it was locked and that he didn't have a key.

The second Sam opened the door, Dean pushed his way in. Once inside the room, he seemed at a loss for what else to do, so he settled for standing in the middle of the room with his arms dangling at his sides. "We should talk," he said agitatedly.

Sam blinked the sleep out of his eyes and pushed his hair out of his face. "What?" he asked, still not quite awake. 

"With our mouths," Dean elaborated sarcastically. "It's a thing people do to communicate ideas and—"

"I know what talking is, Dean," Sam interrupted him. "What I _don't_ know is why you suddenly want to do it at—" He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "—four-twelve in the morning."

Dean shrugged. "I wanna catch up?" he offered.

"You couldn't annoy Cas with whatever it is?" Sam asked, suppressing a yawn.

Dean opened and closed his mouth once, as if trying to come up with a response. "He's busy," he finally settled on, though his tone seemed to indicate that there was some other story there.

"Sleeping?" Sam guessed. "Like a normal person?"

Dean shifted his weight to his other foot. "No?" he answered uncertainly.

Sam waited. 

"It's been eleven years!" Dean protested, seemingly desperate for a distraction from whatever else was eating at him. "I'm not allowed to want to know what you've been up to?" he asked rhetorically.

Sam crossed his arms. "And it couldn't wait until the sun has risen because … ?" he prompted his brother.

"Because—" Dean stopped in the middle of his sentence, looking as if he was searching for an appropriate response. "I don't know. I'm awake?"

Sam sighed. Much as it might have annoyed him, he too was awake now, and there was no changing that any time soon, so he relented. "Fine," he said, all but falling back onto his bed. "What do you want to 'catch up' on?" 

Dean settled himself into the lone chair at the room's table, making the feet squeak awfully against the fake linoleum of the floor as he did so. "The beginning?" he suggested. " 'I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours' sort of thing?"

Sam snorted. "You're about as great at the sharing thing as you were when I left," he noted.

Dean rolled his eyes, and, had he been within reach, Sam was sure he would have received a cuff from his older brother. "At least I'm trying."

And Sam did have to credit him with that, at the very least. The Dean he'd known growing up was not this one at all. The Dean of eleven years ago would never have suggested they talk about the past nor would he have ever suggested that they talk at all. He would have run from anything of or pertaining to emotions of any sort. 

"C'mon," Dean pushed hesitantly. "I already told you what I've been up to. Cas and me against the world and all that. Your turn."

Sam sighed and stared up at the plaster ceiling, watching as the swirls became moving shapes before his unfocused eyes. "I went to college," he said after a minute of swirl-watching. "I met Jess, made some friends, graduated, got a job. Boring."

But Dean just shook his head in disbelief. "You were out though," he said, his tone confused and almost envious. "You worked _so hard_ to get out, yet you turned up in the middle of a hunt nearly a state and a half away from where you're supposed to be living?"

The ceiling's interest levels suddenly increased, and Sam found himself distracted by a particularly unique swirl. "I think—" He stopped, deciding whether or not to go on. "I was happy," he said finally. "For a while, anyway. I just got … restless, I guess. I started with little cases and told myself I'd only do it once in a while. Then …"

"Then the occasional case turned into the monthly case?" Dean guessed. "And the monthly case into the weekly case?"

Sam nodded, perking up slightly. "How did you know?"

Dean shrugged, his hand fidgeting as if searching for a beer bottle to take a swig from. "Because you're here," he answered. "You wouldn't be so far away from Stanford if you'd stayed as out as I thought you were."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, I guess not," he agreed. "I don't know what Jess thinks when I …"

"Disappear in the middle of the night?" Dean finished for him.

They sat in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Sam spoke again. "Sometimes I think she's being watched," he admitted to the ceiling. "There are times when I swear something is watching her … that they're after her because they know she knows me or something."

"Sammy," Dean cut him off, "I hate to break it to you, but your girlfriend is hot. People are going to look."

"Not that way," Sam said, ignoring his brother's attempt to lighten the mood. "The creepy way. Like, nails on a chalkboard, spiders in your shirt creepy."

Sam knew Dean wished that he could tell him he was just being paranoid. Sam wished the same thing. But, the fact was, Sam had a past just as nasty as the next hunter's, and nine times out of ten, the past wasn't really as buried as its owner had originally thought.

"Don't worry about her," Dean said instead. "I'll personally gank any dumb sonuvabitches that dare to come at her."

"Geez." Sam rearranged his elbow beneath his head. "You really do stink with this stuff."

The fact that Dean then looked up, confusion etched plainly across his features, spoke volumes to Sam about the sort of life hunters were able to lead. 

"Most people wouldn't promise to kill something to make their brother feel better about the risks he poses to his girlfriend," Sam informed him.

"Most people get their hair cut once in a while," Dean retorted.

Sam grinned at the ceiling. "Most people don't have affairs with their _car_."

"Oh, now that's just _insulting_."

~~~

It was a little over an hour later that Sam fell out of his bed.

Dean, on the other hand, was unperturbed by Cas's sudden appearance. In fact, he was acting like Cas routinely popped up behind him, quite literally, out of nowhere. 

Had the suddenness of the moment been placed upon Sam as a physical entity, it would have given him whiplash. One second, it was just Sam and Dean laughing and reminiscing in the motel room, the next, Cas was there, standing stiffly at Dean's shoulder.

And Dean didn't even so much as flinch.

"What the hell?" Sam spluttered, hurrying to lift himself from the floor.

Cas simply seemed confused by Sam's reaction and turned to Dean, asking a silent question with his eyes. But Dean wasn't looking at him. He was staring at Sam in horror. 

For half of a second, nothing happened. Sam managed to get himself onto his feet but didn't move beyond that, Dean stayed in his chair, and Cas continued to stand where he was and look confused. 

Then Dean was up on his feet too, his stance in front of Cas protective, and Sam was beginning to put the pieces together. 

Sam's eyes flicked between the two of them, his mind working double-time to keep up with the input it was receiving. _Angel_ , he realized. _He's an angel._

_"What've you been doing? … You've had a hell of a time gap to fill."_

Consorting with the very monsters they had once hunted?

_"It's complicated."_

Sam almost snorted. _Complicated_ was one word for it. _Betrayal_ worked too.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam thought he could see Jess's father standing, watching him. Memories of the hurt and pain following his death, the terrible grief Jess and her mother had had to go through, Jess looking at him like he was a killer—which he was. 

There had been a flash of blue light, then Jess had watched him slice through what she'd thought to be a man's throat with a blade she hadn't known he'd had. He hadn't known what the blue light leaving his mouth had meant.

For weeks, Jess had refused to go near him. 

_It was an accident._

Sam felt white-hot rage course through his limbs. _Accident_ , his mind scoffed. _He's one of them. He did it on purpose._

_And Dean?_ , his mind challenged itself.

_He's in on it._

It made Sam's stomach turn to have such thoughts running through his head, but he couldn't come up with an alternative explanation.

Sam's eyes flicked to the gun he'd left on the nightstand. It was loaded with silver rounds, but it was also laying on the other side of the bed. If he just moved quickly enough … 

"Go ahead," Dean said, nodding at the gun. "If it'll make you feel better."

Though he knew he should be expecting a trap, Sam couldn't bring himself to believe that that was what this was. So, he lunged, and his fingers closed around the handle easily, each finding its place automatically.

While it did make Sam feel better to have the gun in his hands, he couldn't bring himself to hoist it any further than his midsection. He simply couldn't believe that Dean would have willingly conspired with the person—the _thing_ —responsible for the Fall and the suffering it had caused.

"I don't know what's going through your head right now," Dean said cautiously, shuffling closer to Cas and leaning into a more defensive position, "but I promise you, whatever it is, it isn't true."

"Really?" Sam challenged him, tightening his grip on the gun. "Because to me, it looks a hell of a lot like you've been hanging out with an angel."

"He's not that kind of angel," Dean said at the same time that Cas said, "I've rebelled."

Sam scoffed. "Right," he said sarcastically. "You're an angel, but you rebelled, so it's all good. Is that what I'm supposed to believe?"

Dean glared at him. "He's one of the good guys," he growled.

"He's one of the good guys?" Sam repeated disbelievingly. "Do you hear yourself, Dean? _He's an angel._ "

Cas eyed the gun calculatingly, then he took a step forward, out from behind Dean. "I told you, I rebelled. I have no affiliation with what remains of my brethren—"

"Sure you don't." Sam tightened his fingers around the handle of his gun uncertainly. "But if I stick a silver bullet in your head, you'll still glow, won't you?"

"Woah," Dean said loudly, taking a sudden step toward his brother, arms outstretched to show he meant no harm. "You don't need to—"

Cas just rolled his eyes. "No," he said matter-of-factly. "It wouldn't hurt me at all."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked, lifting the gun a little higher. _Jess's father was on the ground, he was running for the blade still embedded in his chest, Jess was looking at him like the murderer he was …_

Sam felt his fingers tense around the trigger in anticipation. He didn't care that the people in the neighboring rooms might hear. This was the being responsible for dragging him back into the life, for damaging things with Jess.

Dean's eyes widened, recognizing the tension in Sam's shoulders. "No!" he cried instinctively, jumping at his brother and tackling him to the ground. 

But he was too late. The bullet was already in the air, sailing, soaring to its target, where it would tear into the soft flesh, push its way into the blood and bones, and—

"You sonuvabitch," Dean spat. Saliva fell from his lips and onto Sam's cheek. He didn't care.

That was where he aimed his fist. 

~~~

It took Sam three hours to come back around from the beating Dean had given him before Cas had managed to pull him off. 

It took him a full twenty-four hours to believe that the bullet had truly done no damage to Cas. 

It took him another three days of research, fact-checking, and calls to hunters he hadn't seen or talked to in years to confirm that Cas really was the good guy Dean believed him to be.

On the fourth day, Dean and Cas caught and dispatched the shifter. When Dean stopped by Sam's room to inform him that the shifter was dead, he made sure to conclude with, "It shot Mara and Alfie before we got there. Must've been trigger-happy bastard, eh? Like someone else I know."

Then he turned and walked away.

The rumble of the Impala sounded before Sam could formulate a response. By the time he realized what was happening, the Impala was peeling out of the parking lot, heading out onto the highway.


	12. Epilogue

A little under a month later, Sam pulled into another motel's parking lot, somewhere just north of where the second "O" in "Oklahoma" would be on a map. The door now just ahead and to the right of his line of sight wasn't decorated with anything special—just a number fourteen in bronze numbers—yet something about the door's appearance seemed to open a wide, gaping hole in his chest. 

He'd been searching, tracking, and following up on dead-end leads in order to get to this moment for more than two weeks. He couldn't chicken out, not now that he was finally _here_.

Before he could even get out of his car, the door to room number fourteen opened wide, letting the early-morning sunshine seep into the darkness of the motel room. 

What that light illuminated, though, was not what Sam had expected at all. Granted, he hadn't devoted a lot of time to considering the different scenarios that would play out once he'd gotten this far; he'd only been able to think so far ahead, knowing only that he needed to fix things with his brother before they turned into another eleven year estrangement. But still. To see his brother, his big, macho brother, lean in for a goodbye-peck, from _Cas_ no less, was unexpected. 

Dean, on the other hand, seemed totally at ease, as if he did this every day, which, Sam supposed, he probably did. And, come to think of it, that certainly did explain a lot.

Dean's reaction when Sam had a gun to Cas's head … " _If you so much as touch a hair on his head, so help me, I can guarantee that you'll spend eternity as the Devil's personal bitch._ "

The fierce protectiveness in his tone hadn't stood out to Sam at the time, but now, having witnessed what he had … 

The unforgiving pounding Dean had given Sam after he'd shot Cas, despite the fact that Dean must have known Cas would be fine … 

Sam smiled to himself, bemused by the fact that it had taken him this long and such a violent smack upside the metaphorical head to realize what had allowed Cas to take such a prominent role in Dean's life. 

When Sam realized that Dean was heading across the parking lot, to the Impala, and likely wouldn't be coming back soon, he reacted purely on instinct. "Wait!" he called as he fumbled his way out of his own car. It was a rental and entirely too small for a man as large as himself.

Dean halted, and Sam almost _aww_ ed at the fact that he immediately turned back toward the motel room he'd just left, obviously expecting Cas to have been the one that called out. 

"Over here," Sam called, feeling far more awkward than the universe had any right to make him feel as he waved his arm over his head. 

When Dean saw Sam, he froze. "Sammy?" he asked in a voice that reminded Sam of the one he'd used in the shed.

Sam wasn't sure which of them made the conscious decision to move, but they were suddenly somehow standing face-to-face and, in true Winchester fashion, weren't saying a word.

Eventually, Sam simply said, "I'm sorry."

Dean nodded and mumbled something about how he should have told Sam earlier. 

Sam shook his head and told the cracked tops of his leather boots that he shouldn't have been so quick to jump to conclusions. 

Then they stood in awkward silence, each refusing to be the first to break it. 

By the time Sam finally thought of something to say, he was fairly sure an eternity had passed. "So, you and Cas, huh?"

Dean's lips curled upward despite the effort he was obviously exerting to maintain a stoic expression. "Yeah," he said casually. "You should've seen him. We were hunting vamps last week. Couldn't for the life of us figure out where they were hiding, but when we did, he just about took the whole nest down. I barely had to lift a finger, the cocky bastard."

Sam did his best to smile at what was obviously supposed to be Dean's equivalent of small-talk, but he found he couldn't. "You could've told me," he said instead.

"Nah," Dean said with a shake of his head. "It was just vamps. 'S not like we needed any help."

"That's not what I meant," Sam replied, wondering if Dean was being intentionally thick. 

Dean tilted his head in confusion, a habit Sam belatedly realized he'd picked up from Cas. "Then what are we talking about?"

Sam nodded toward the motel room Dean had just come out of. "You know what."

Dean looked between his brother and the motel room, the cogs in his brain obviously whirring away, trying desperately to figure out what he was talking about. Finally he turned back to Sam, confusion still written plainly across his face. "But I did tell you," he said. "When you first turned up—the same night I told you about Bobby."

For a moment, Sam wanted to call Dean on what was obviously a load of bull, but a second's hesitation brought Sam's memory of that night to the forefront of his mind, and—oh.

" _Then we, you know, partnered up. Been together ever since._ "

And Sam burst out laughing, because, yeah, he was that dumb.

"What?" Dean asked, startled and thrown off-guard by Sam's sudden outburst. 

Sam managed to pull himself together, though he did have to make an effort to do so. "Nothing," he said. "Just … I think I'm sort of a huge idiot."

Dean rolled his eyes. "That's not exactly breaking news, Sammy."

"And so are you," Sam added.

Dean stiffened defensively. "Way to boost a guy's ego. Mind elaborating on that one?"

Sam just shook his head, still grinning, and batted his hand as if to swat the question away. "It doesn't matter now," he said dismissively.

Dean stood for a moment, still glaring, but he didn't push it. "Whatever," he mumbled, turning his harsh gaze to the edge of the parking lot.

After a moment, Sam had finally managed to compose himself. "So, are we good?"

Dean just nodded like the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. " 'Course we are, Sammy. 'Course we are."

Sam's smile spread wider across his face. "Good."

As if on some unspoken cue, they both turned and began heading back toward motel room number fourteen.

"Did you seriously not know?" Dean asked as they stepped over the parking block in front of the room.

Sam laughed. "Shut up."

It was as Dean was unlocking the door to the motel room that something crossed Sam's mind. "So, when Cas said his dad was religious …" he began.

Dean bobbed his head up and down, exaggerating the movement to add an unspoken _duh_. "His dad was _very_ religious."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter: http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/lady_lini/75490476/1102/1102_original.jpg

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I'd like to thank my wonderful betas, MarvelLuver and NyteKit. You guys are awesome. Thank you so much. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank the ever-so-talented paxdracona for the, once again, marvelous artwork for this piece. Thank you so much.
> 
> And thank you, reader. This wouldn't have worked at all without you. So thank you for taking the time to read this. It means the world (and then some!) to me.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: Shifter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728600) by [WingofCastiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingofCastiel/pseuds/WingofCastiel)




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